


Portraits of a Statue

by reallyquitegay



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Art, Artist Grantaire, Author Has Taken AP Government and Now Feels Like She Has to Put it to Use, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author Is So Obviously In Love With Enjolras, Because i think about this instead of sleeping, Bisexual Grantaire (Les Misérables), Break Up, Café Musain, Canon Universe, Enjolras Has Feelings, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, French Political History, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grantaire being Grantaire, Grantaire is a Mess, It's going to be like so heavily involved tho cuz i think about this too much, Just Get some tissues, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Oops, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Romance, Sort Of, This is literally just a prequel, University, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Yeah thats how id describe it, bruh, hes bi ok, i literally cant even describe it youve got to read it, no but im making this like accurate-accurate, pretty much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25322464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reallyquitegay/pseuds/reallyquitegay
Summary: Hugo told us that Grantaire was obsessed with the idea of romance and obsessed with the idea of Enjolras. He told us that Enjolras had a deep rooted love for the republic and a deep rooted hate for Grantaire. He never exactly told us how they got this way.AKA: My novel-length (headcanoned) prequel of Les Mis revolving around Grantaire and Enjolras' history together :)
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	1. Inspiration

Grantaire always liked art.

He admired finding the smallest aspects of life and enlarging and enhancing them beyond belief. He naturally was an overthinker, contemplating and picking at the little things and ignoring the big ones. It was comforting to have an outlet where that sort of mentality was praised, not scorned.

And that wasn’t even the half of it! 

No, it wasn’t just the nitpicking - the focus needed to work with the agonizingly slow and stressful parts of art - that made him fall in love with it. It was the attention to beauty. Art stressed that being conventionally unattractive meant that you were unconventionally alluring. You had more beauty, more  _ art  _ locked up inside of you than anybody else. It was a source of strength in his life.

He could recognize beauty from anywhere.  _ He  _ wasn’t beautiful, not that it bothered him.  _ But _ if he could create something so prepossessing that people couldn’t help but to stare at it in absolute awe, perhaps it meant that a bit of him wasn’t terrible. That little bit of him could become not only pretty, or beautiful, but  _ extraordinary _ . 

And doesn’t everyone strive for the extraordinary? 

Art was one of the few things that brought him joy, really. Picking out what he thought was astonishing about life and reforming it to help others see it, too. So, naturally, he decided to go to school for it. He was rather good at it, so why not?

That, and he was absolutely  _ worthless  _ and anything and everything else. His father always got on him about mathematics. The thought of it made him laugh.

Plus, he was a proud drunk. All good painters seemed to be drunks. It was the only profession where you could spill wine on your work and have it be sold for more money than it would’ve been worth originally. 

That made him laugh, too.

So, he got into a university that had an art program and went for it. It was hard work, sure, harder than he could’ve ever imagined, but he still loved it. It might have even been the happiest he’d ever been. 

Scratch that.

He had  _ never  _ been better.

He finally had a strict schedule that he had to directly attend to, something to shift his sleep schedule back to more reasonable hours. He had a reason to get out of bed in the morning, which was strangely comforting. He found comfort in distraction, it meant that he could once again ignore the big picture.

So he adored the entire being of art. He was a soul so full of admiration for the world around him, yet so full of hate for himself that it only made sense for him to become an artist.

He had painted himself countless times.

Each time it was looking into a grotesque mirror. He hated self portraits because they required him to be brutally honest with himself about who he was (and if not already noted, it was the  _ distraction  _ part of art he liked). It only took him forever to realize that he didn’t need to draw or paint or sculpt  _ himself _ .

It was a funny story.

The project for the finals that they’d been working on the entire year had one simple guideline: Remake Yourself. 

For most of the first semester he’d taken those two words too literally. He should’ve known better, really. When a crooked art professor tells you to make something, it’s always metaphorical. It shouldn’t have taken him so long to realize that he was actually supposed to be creating something that  _ represented  _ himself, not his actual face or body.

Thank God.

Still, he couldn’t think up what to make (not that it was that important at the time, though). Almost every evening he’d walk through the university’s promenade, which was surrounded by trees that grew colorful in autumn and then bare in winter. He’d listen to the soft breeze, its rustling through him. He’d smell the sweet flowers that the gardener so fervently tended to. He’d watch the sun travel across the sky until it disappeared under the horizon.

It interested him, the sun. Its light still reflected off of the moon even after it set. It wasn’t there at the moment, but it was still burning. The light never burned out.

And the moon happily embraced it. The moon shone because of the sun. Without the sun, the moon would never beam as brightly as it did every single night.

But the promenade.

He would take a stroll through the promenade every evening with a sketchpad and sketch whatever he loved, hoping that something would give him some sense of inspiration, reminding him of himself.

Oh, he got inspiration alright. But nothing reminded him of him. 

It had been a long day, once. He had gotten up early to finish an assignment, then was almost late to his first class. Nothing had gone particularly wrong over the course of the day, it was simply tiring. 

That’s why it felt so nice to sketch while walking against the humming wind in the crisp Paris air. He could turn all of his undivided attention onto his work, closing out every other sensation and letting his body go on autopilot, simply enjoying the world around him.

Everything was closed away.

It was stupid, really, not to look where you were going while walking in public. It could make you look like a drunk, especially if you were so locked up in your own mind. Thankfully, Grantaire  _ was  _ a drunk. He had nothing to lose.

Except maybe his dwindling dignity.

He was hardly paying attention when it happened. The guy shuffling in front of him had just  _ stopped _ . No warning. Nothing. He had either spotted someone or remembered that he had forgotten something, but honestly it really didn’t matter and Grantaire really didn’t care.

He was walking, and then he just  _ stopped _ . 

Grantaire, not wanting to run face first into him and embarrass the both of them, fell to the side on instinct. He had bad instincts.

Falling sideways, he ran straight into someone else, going in the opposite direction.  _ Damnit _ . So much for not causing a dilemma.

But it really wasn’t a big deal. He was just overthinking it. He was an overthinker. That’s been established.

On colliding with the other person, he dropped the pencil he was using to sketch out of surprise. He cringed, because then he would have to lean down to get it and it would be a mess of awkwardness. He felt terrible. He hated awkwardness.

The guy who had stopped dead in his tracks was suddenly running towards someone on the other side of the promenade (so he  _ was  _ noticing someone!). That left one less person to face. But one more…

He turned around, probably a bit too quickly, to apologize to the guy he had ran into. He had to be polite at the least, he had practically body slammed the poor dude for Christ’s sake. So, holding up a hand, he said, “My bad.” 

He was about to grab the pencil and move on, in fact he was a split second from doing so, but then the guy turned to look at him. 

And oh good God.

Grantaire always liked art because he liked beauty. He loved beauty and had a keen eye for it as well. It was a talent. He could spot it anywhere, and everytime it took his breath away.

And there, right in front of him, was the epitome of beauty.

The young man, obviously a student, seemed to be carved out of pure marble. His features were put together so delicately that it was hard not to think that he owned two souls: His own and the one of whatever artist sculpted him. Grantaire could just  _ tell _ . He held double the depth of one person in his eyes. In fact, it was almost as if the entire Pacific was poured into them. They were a deep blue, fitting well with his perfect complexion. He was without a blemish.

He was hardly human. He had to have been an angel of some sort.

He  _ had _ to have been crafted.

Grantaire had to restrain himself from reaching out and touching the guy. He was so unbelievably convinced that his skin would be as chilled as the marble slab he was once carved out of. It was so believable.

It took him a moment to realize that the guy hadn’t responded to him. Maybe he hadn’t heard him?

“I apologize,” he repeated himself.

He once again didn’t accept his apology. His jaw simply tightened in annoyance as he grabbed the pencil that Grantaire had dropped and handed it to him. He met his eyes with a cold stare and nodded at him, then turned back around and continued off.

Grantaire watched him go.

Then, realizing he was standing in the middle of the walk, pivoted on his heels and hurried home.

The entire encounter must have only taken up five seconds at the most, but he felt like a mini eternity had passed in those five seconds. Something deep inside of him had clicked at this sudden discovery. He had found the Holy Grail of art: a person born to be reinvented over and over again.

He had heard about people like that, people who walk around resembling beauty. Some say that those people are born because God observed the Artists at work and was determined to remind them that He would always be the “master creator” (whatever that meant). 

Grantaire didn’t really believe in “God”, because what sort of creator would get so jealous of his creations that he was so set on one-uping them at everything that they did? Why would he be so afraid of his own work that he felt the need to put it in its place?

But nevermind that.

As soon as he arrived at his home (a small, cheap apartment that was appropriately horrible), he threw the sketchbook he was previously carrying to the side and grabbed the newest one he had bought. He hadn’t even opened it yet.

He was going to draw the young man.

And if he was going to draw him, he was going to do it right.

So, quickly, before he could forget a single detail, he began dragging his pencil along the first page, recreating the perfect bone structure he had seen just minutes before. He let his hand do all the work, copying from memory every single excruciating feature he could.

The eyes, the jaw, the hair.

His hair was curled behind his ear, that was one thing. It looked softer than silk.

Pure perfection. An artist’s dream.

So, bent over his desk, he spent hours drawing him. Whenever he finished, he started over again and attacked the portrait with corrections. It was unbelievably hard to get down the absolute beauty he had witnessed in those mere  _ five seconds _ .

But it didn’t matter.

He drew. He continued drawing even when his wrist cramped up so bad he wanted to cry. He simply lit a candle once the sun went down. He took a sip of whiskey to keep himself awake whenever he started feeling a bit drowsy.

All night long, he recreated the face of someone who had glared him down with the very pencil he had held. It seemed important, and he didn’t know why. It seemed imperative that he didn’t stop no matter what. 

People used to say that he was crazy for becoming so obsessed with things that he’d end up drawing or painting them until he physically could not stay awake any longer. Maybe he  _ was _ crazy. He was apathetic towards the idea.

He was apathetic towards a lot of things.

But, he was not apathetic towards inspiration.

And this man, this  _ guy _ he saw for a split second was suddenly the most inspiring thing he ever laid eyes on.

It wasn’t until three in the morning that he could not work any longer and was forced to blow out the candle and go to bed. He really did not want to do so, but he was afraid of passing out and ruining the art by shifting in his sleep. It was a constant fear of his. Stupid, really.

So, a strange new obsession being claimed by his proud, addictive personality, he wrung out his wrist and collapsed onto his bed. Satisfied with finishing the recreation and tired beyond belief, he was out before his head even hit the pillow.

The implications of his obsession did not matter.

He pretended that they never would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! sorry that chapter was pretty short but uhhhhh it was needed lol.  
> ive never really planned out a huge story like this but im going to do it so just,, be patient :)  
> as always, reviews + kudos are greatly appreciated
> 
> -dani (reallyquitegay)


	2. The Library (Pt. 1)

Your memory has a funny way of tricking you. 

It tells you one thing one second, and then another the next. It can be utterly infuriating, especially when you feel as if you can never trust your own mind to keep track of your knowledge for you. And then, similarly, if you try to tell it to remember some specifics of an event, it will remember exactly the opposite. It’s a tiring, flawed process in the long run.

It’s especially exasperating if you’re trying to recall the excruciatingly particular features of someone’s face that you saw for maybe five or so seconds.

Grantaire had read once that brains log every face that they ever see and store them all deep inside of the memory, the information only resurfacing for needed extras in dreams ever so often. It didn’t work consciously, though, and he should know. He had tried.

Over the course of about a week or two, he had spent almost every night carefully refining his original drawing of the young man he had seen on the promenade. Everytime he thought he’d finished it and was about to go paint it in, he realized that he was missing something. Something was wrong. Something always felt a bit _off_.

The only thing he was confident enough in anymore were his eyes. It was the _eyes_ that mostly popped out to him. They were the color of the ocean, really. They were so incredibly captivating that no voice in his mind could convince him that they were anything else but the color of pure sapphire. 

But besides that, he was unable to keep second-guessing himself on every little thing. 

What side was his hair parted on? A mystery. 

What shade were his lips? It was hard to tell.

Did he actually have a couple of freckles on his previously unblemished face? Or was that something that Grantaire was just making up for the fun of it? It was worthless to dwell on such a thing.

And it wasn’t like he could go out and find the guy, grab him, and study his face to answer all of his questions. It would be a hard thing to explain.

So, he just kept drawing.

He reserved every night for some whiskey and a pencil in the comfort of his own small home, going back and fixing errors that weren’t even errors. An artist captivated by a piece never rests until said piece is perfect. Grantaire would never rest until he was as blown away by the drawing as when he saw him in real life.

It was tedious. Stressful. Everything that he hated.

It was confusing, too. He had never been so deeply obsessed with such a person before, especially considering that he didn’t even know his name. It struck him as odd that he himself could not stop thinking of such a random person whose only confrontation with him was a glare and the passing of a pencil. It made him question his interest, which was another thing that he constantly intended to ignore.

But if art was a distraction from such things, then how had it found its way into his work?

But nevermind that. It hardly mattered, really. What mattered most was school, the university. He had paid good money to get there, and he was _not_ about to get kicked out for failing any sort of class.

People often thought that he was indifferent to everything. In reality, he was only passionate about what really counted, and if that was school, it was school.

So, living a separate life away from his obsession with the young man, he attended class and did the work and scored generally well. It shouldn’t have been an accomplishment, but it sure did feel like one.

One day, a certain history class announced that it was entering a unit revolving around the Baroque style’s popularity and its transition into the Rococo age. They were supposed to go and get some idiotic textbook written on the subject from the university library, a place that Grantaire usually tried to stay clear away from. It was mostly filled with students who thought too highly of themselves and took themselves too seriously. It pissed him off.

Then again, it was just a library.

So, putting off his secret project concerning the boy who looked like a statue, he decided to take a detour to said library to check out the book as quickly as possible so that he wouldn’t forget about it after drowning his dreams in alcohol later (maybe that was part of it?). It was only a little walk away, so he hardly had time to daydream before arriving at the foot of the massive building so filled with books that it was bound to catch fire at some point. He could imagine it. In front of him, it was almost like he could see it desperately recreating the fire of Alexandria. 

He laughed quietly to himself. It was a silly thing to imagine, but it was once again another distraction, wasn’t it? A distraction from having to go inside?

Still, it was imperative that he pulled himself along if he wanted to keep up a good image in class. With that thought on his mind, he sighed and entered the building that was still smoking in his head.

Trying not to make eye contact with anyone, terrified of a librarian forcing a conversation with him, he speed-walked to the history section.

God. The library was like a damn maze, really. A maze that smelled of decaying paper and candles, eerily silent to the point that it was just uncomfortable. He could hear his own footsteps, along with those of a man halfway across the building. It gave him chills.

Eventually he found the history section (or _floor_ really, considering the fact that the library was incredibly gigantic). It was littered with people, all distressing over trying to find some specific book. It was always easy to tell who needed something for a class the next day versus who was just perusing. It could’ve been made into a game:

The guy scrambling from shelf to shelf to skim each and every title? A procrastinator.

The one bent down to inspect the bottom row and pulling out almost every book he sees? Someone with a little too much time on his hands.

He amused himself sometimes.

Still. 

He had one reason to be there and one reason only, and that reason certainly was _not_ to make crooked assumptions based on everyone he laid eyes on. He needed to stop.

So, he made a beeline to the _B_ aisle; B for Baroque, right? Right. Correct. Exactly.

He began to skim the shelves, blanking out every few moments out of boredom and needing to restart again. He really despised reading, _truly_. He hated it with every fiber of his being, mostly because it just reminded him of learning as a kid, which reminded him of learning math as a kid, and… 

_Screw math_.

But nevertheless, he continued, eager to get the whole thing over with. 

Passing endless arrays of books, he counted down alphabetically when the book should appear. It was tiring, looking at so many titles, trying to find one specific one. It was a miracle anyone had any luck finding _anything_. 

About to give up, he turned around dramatically in frustration. He went to go start at the beginning, because he was 100% sure that he had already crossed it but simply hadn’t noticed. That was plausible. But, as he reached the end of the aisle, he was forced to stop dead in his tracks (thank the Lord that no one was directly behind him).

-For only a few feet away, reading through a book with curiosity, was _him_. The man he had been drawing almost frantically every night for days. It was uncanny, at that point he had been fairly convinced that he had simply made him up.

But there he was, full flesh and blood, coated in marble and freshly carved like before. _Exactly_ like before. He was entirely tuned in to whatever he was reading, too consumed by it to notice Grantaire’s presence as he stared at him.

It felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him at just the _sight_ of the man. His entire being radiated a sort of light, something he hadn’t picked up beforehand. He had a glow to him that made him question if he was just a figment of his imagination once more.

He blinked.

He was still there.

Real.

His beauty was just so utterly striking that Grantaire could not help but step forward. Closer, he was once again overwhelmed by the odd _light_ he gave off. It was as if his entire life he was living in darkness before he laid his eyes on him. He never wanted to look away, not in a million years. If beauty was personified, he was standing only feet away from him.

Something about the way he was, just the energy he gave off, made Grantaire filled with a sudden respect for him. He blinded him of all thoughts and values, and it hardly bothered him that the book was titled _Bonapartisme_ \- a political stance. For once, someone who was clearly an intellectual did not irk him. Instead, it filled him with a sense of comfort.

He watched as his body language changed ever so slightly so that he was no longer reading the book in a more insouciant manner, but so he was reading it with disgust. He had some sort of prior opinion on Bonapartism, and was using the book to either help or hurt his argument. 

He was decisive. He was to be respected _and_ he was beautiful. Both in the one.

Grantaire stood utterly transfixed before him, questioning how one could have both the elegance of a woman yet the authority of a man. It was almost unheard of, someone so perfectly _exemplary_ that there were almost no words to truly describe his presence. 

With lithe limbs and a venerable energy about him, he was pure perfection. 

And then it hit him.

Instead of just oogling him without excuse, he could clear up the answers to all of his pressing questions. Everything that had been burdening him could be lifted off of his shoulders and he could finish the soon-to-be-painting, moving on with his life. Not that he specifically wanted to.

It just felt right to.

So, leaning in a bit closer, he studied his features even more intensely as before. He no longer was aware of himself, just of the checklist in his mind. It was an out of body experience.

And slowly, surely, everything was becoming clear.

He parted his hair on the right, he concluded after a moment. It was hard to tell with the blond curls (which resembled a golden halo above him). Next.

His lips. Not that he was entirely interested, but he just needed to check. He needed to know. He simply observed them, creating a mental note on their exact shape and light shade. They were nice. That observation could count as a note. _Next_.

The freckles. He had to lean in even further to inspect if he had any sort of freckles anywhere, because if so he would then have to count them from a distance to satisfy that question before it even popped into his head.

He was so borderline obsessive.

But whatever. As he looked closely, he determined with great dismay that his face truly was “blemish” free. Out of curiosity, he shifted his eyes down to his neck. To his surprise, a few were scattered, leading down to his collarbone. They were barely noticeable, but they certainly were there. _Thank God for 20/20 vision_.

Grantaire smiled to himself, finally free from any and all things to do with him and his perfection, and started planning his future. After finishing the portrait, he’d rip it out and keep it somewhere safe, but otherwise he’d never look at it again. What a sad intervention. 

The thing was, it had been plaguing his mind, and he needed a distraction from the distraction itself. He had to finish the portrait.

Quickly.

But no matter how many times he told himself that it had to be done and over with as fast as possible, he still found himself staring at him, _admiring_ him. It was hard not to. He was surprised that he was the only one being practically hypnotised by him.

A person of such magnificence should not be allowed out in public.

Seriously. 

As he was contemplating this, the young man finally snapped out of whatever book-induced-haze he was condemned to and noticed the sensation of being watched. Grantaire continued to stare as he lowered the book, took a breath, and turned to look at him.

 _He was looking at him_.

It was like the fourth wall of reality had been broken. He was suddenly left speechless under the eye of what appeared to be a humanized, fine statue. Not only that, but he was caught red handed as well.

“Do you need something?” he asked in confusion.

Grantaire had no answer. _Yes_ , he wanted to say. _Yes, I’m planning to paint you because I’m an art student, you see, and I think that you resemble art. I was just trying to memorize your face so that I could do it accurately so that it stops keeping me up at night. But I’m good now. I’ve studied you enough, so I’ll be on my way_! 

Instead, all that he was able to do was mutter, “Not particularly,” and then give him an awkward smile. With no obviously valid explanation, he had no other choice but to turn around and make a run for it. A run away from him and everyone and everything else. Away from the library itself.

He eventually slowed down a bit, but ended up half-jogging half-walking the entire way back to the front door. He only stopped to catch his breath once he was out of the building, out of sight from any and all windows. 

It only then occurred to him how weird he might have appeared to the man. He had simply asked him a question, to which he responded as if he was under interrogation, and then sprinted away. He couldn’t help but cringe, cursing himself for screwing up a possible conversation with _him_. He could’ve gotten to know him better. 

And if he got to know him better, he could have drawn him in a characteristic position, representing his actual self rather than the hollow mold of a statue Grantaire kept painting him as in his mind. It was the perfect chance.

But that moment was gone and over with. It was discarded the moment he froze once he looked him in the eyes and started an unfinished interaction. He probably thought that he was insane.

For some reason that bothered him more than usual.

Forget it.

Lost in disappointment and the sinking guilt from missing a possible connection, he started home. His plans for the evening had changed within that minute or two. He was no longer going to be sticking by his developed routine, he was going to get back home and drown his worries in wine until he couldn’t feel a single thing. It seemed like the most appropriate thing to do.

So, arriving at his apartment once more, he immediately downed several glasses (about three or so too many - _tolerance_ ), and got to work on fixing the portrait so that once he was sober, he wouldn’t have to think about it anymore.

Consider it a favor to his future self.

However, as the alcohol settled in, the page before him only held more and more possibility for creativity. While he didn’t know much about the guy, he knew more about him than the day before. He knew what he was reading and his reaction to it, so that was something. He could create something from that.

But _no_ , he had to restrain himself and get it over with. 

So, lighting the candle and staring at the page for only a brief second, he thought _screw it_ and went for it. Judgement a bit more impaired than usual, he went ahead and fixed his hair, his lips, and even erased the couple of freckles that he had previously put onto his face and replaced them so that they kissed his neck instead.

Once he was done with all of the little edits, he splashed color onto the drawing, painting in each and every inch of him just as artists tend to do. They do not think too hard, or second guess the process, they just seem to bleed hues of the rainbow until it looks just as they imagined it. 

Quickly, he cut himself open with inspiration and bled until the portrait was no longer a drawing but a painting. There was sort of a drunken abstract flare to it all, but then again, that’s what he tended to specialize in.

As it dried, he noticed that it had gotten dark out. Time was simply a concept to him in the moment, so he hardly cared much. It was just a surprising after thought that left him inspecting the candle once more, amazed at how he could just light a small sun anytime that the real thing went to sleep.

Sleep was another arbitrary concept. To Grantaire, it was more of an option than a necessity. Sure, choosing not to was probably not the _best_ option, but as a genetic insomniac, he had learned from a young age that it _was_ an option at the least.

Looking back at the candle, more precisely the flame, he was suddenly reminded of the light _he_ had about him. It was unlike anything that Grantaire had ever seen before; a visible radiation of perfection. Part of him wondered if he was the only one who could see it, or if everyone else was just too preoccupied to notice. Either way, even if it wasn’t real, it was real to him. That’s what mattered. 

And then an idea popped into his head.

The way he was standing, book in hand, seemingly dipped in sunlight, was almost art in itself. Key word: _almost_. That meant that if he…

Too tired to argue with his own intoxicated mind, Grantaire flipped the page in the sketchbook and started on a new piece. It was of the guy just as he had seen him at the library, a look of interest painted upon his face as he read the book of Bonapartism, but doused in light as if under the only window in a dark building. The only difference was that it was coming from _him_ , not coming down _upon_ him from another source.

Rather swiftly, without a worry, he got the sketch done and then painted it in before he could really consider any detail he might have gotten wrong. By morning it would be dry and there would be nothing that he could do about it. He wouldn’t be able to fix any mistakes, and so, he would have to be forced to put the whole thing to rest. By morning. 

_By morning_.

Oh.

By morning, he also had to go to class. 

The class that he just so happened to need the book for.

And though they really didn’t need the book for a couple more days, he had forgotten to get it nevertheless, which meant that he would eventually have to go _back_ to the library to get it. He’d have to return to that horrid place of rich young men with high hopes of becoming even richer, outclassing even the most well known philanthropists. They always thought that they were _so smart_.

But worst of all, he might have to face _him_ again, which would only spark his obsession even more. He’d only seen him twice, and both times it was like finding gold. If the university campus was drawn out in a map, the library would have an _X_ over it. _X_ marks the spot.

And though he should’ve been terribly frustrated by the thought of seeing him again, of re-entering the library to face him and all his glory, he could not bring himself to be unhappy about it. He was almost excited.

Perhaps it was just his drunken mind talking, but he was becoming thrilled by the notion of seeing him in person again, not just on paper. Was that wrong?

Was it wrong for him to want to find him again after all that had happened? Was it wrong for him to be thinking about the future so far in advance?

Was it wrong for him to have this _entire obsession_?

It was unclear. So many things were unclear. The only thing that he knew for sure was that in going back to get the book, there was a possibility that he could find him again.

And that excited him beyond belief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grantaire is such a stalker and i wholeheartedly believe that he would do something like this.
> 
> huh.
> 
> <3


	3. The Library (Pt. 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? actually posting? wow.

Grantaire had worked excessively through the night, stopping only to stretch, switch paint colors, or to pour himself another glass of wine. He had decided against sleep for the time being because the task at hand was much more important than any dream that could possibly await him in bed. He was constantly a brush stroke away from a masterpiece, and so,  _ him _ . He was always a mere second away from seeing his face reappear before his on the paper. 

Always.

However, even though he finally had the answers to all of his questions, something was always a bit off. It needed a bit more shading. A touch of highlight. Was he a third  _ in  _ or a third to the  _ end  _ of the book? So many bits and pieces of it all needed fixing, and eventually dialing down on the alcohol, he was ready to fine tune the painting to perfection.

The issue was that after hours, it already  _ was  _ perfect.

Perhaps he just didn’t want to finish the painting, for that would mean letting him go. Maybe he wanted to distract himself with a stranger’s pretty face instead of thinking and considering how he himself fit into the scene that he was recreating. 

He didn’t know.

But eventually, the night had given way to day and his drunkenness had subsided to pained soberness. Annoyed (and a bit hung over), he glared at the rising sun through his window, trying to will it to set once more so that he could just continue working on his almost-masterpiece. Sadly, such wishes and wills never come true. 

Sighing, he pushed everything to the side of his desk and hastily changed his clothes. He normally would just continue wearing whatever he was wearing previously (because who would even notice?), but he wasn’t  _ just _ getting dressed for class. He was preparing for a possible encounter with the blond man who had been haunting his thoughts for over a week. 

He had to at least look half decent.

He had strategically planned out the day sometime in the very early morning. He was to leave his apartment an hour earlier than necessary so that he would have time to quickly swing by the library and grab the book for class, quick enough that he could forget about it until it was actually due. He would run in, check it out, run out, then go to class and continue about his day. Realistically, should only take a few minutes overall.

But he gave himself an hour. Just in case.

So, grabbing his stuff, all packed into a bag for the day, he started out the door.

It was a short walk to the library, not long enough to really contemplate anything too deep. He was thankful for that. He didn’t believe that he could live with his own mind so early in the day. He normally reserved that for later in the night.

Soon enough, he reached the large building. It was grotesquely enormous, he thought. There was no reason for it to be that big. It was just another example of studious people forcing their “superiority” over everyone else; trying to prove that their building of books was more worthy of a huge slot of land than any other sort of structure.

But it could be worse. He tried to be grateful that he didn’t have to buy books off of the “scum” of Paris. He didn’t have to waste a sou for any bundle of papers. How courteous of the university.

Yet if it wasn’t for the university, he wouldn’t  _ need  _ the library in the first place.

It was a trick all along.

Sighing, he shook the thought from his head and started in. Immediately, he was hit with the dull smell of dust milling around between pages. He was in so much of a hurry the day before that he hardly had time to really relish in his hatred.

It wasn’t that he hated the smell of books, per se. He just hated how opening some of them up felt like digging up a grave from 1602. 

Old, dusty, and decayed.

He felt oddly trapped while reading as well. The smell tended to push the thought of death upon him, making him eerily aware of the minutes he’s losing while staring at a piece of paper.

Reading had some semblance of death in it. He couldn’t quite explain why.

Death aside, he had to find the damned book for his class. He couldn’t wander around and wallow in his own thoughts, for he had promised himself that he would go in, get it, and then that would be all.

Picking up his pace, he kept his head down and made a beeline for the history section. Once there, he began searching for the book, skimming all of the titles, taking his sweet, sweet time.

He had an hour. There was no reason to worry.

He made his way around the shelves, glancing over the spines, yet hardly paying attention. He wanted to take up the entire hour,  _ just in case _ . Although he didn’t want to admit it, he was desperately hoping that in an hour he could once again run into his new inspiration.

The chances were slim, but that didn’t stop him from hoping. 

Eventually he came across the book he was looking for.  _ Finally _ . He picked out the newest-looking copy (most of them reeked of mildew), and tucked it under his arm.

He had it. All he had to do was check it out and then leave. 

That was all.

Yet somehow the fact that his task was over and done with made his heart sink in his chest. It was a small change, but an evident one nonetheless. It was enough to ache with a sort of distracted disappointment, to drag him down back to where he started before he had ever seen the man in his paintings. It was like he had disappeared back into his thoughts once more, as if he was waking up from a pleasant dream, suddenly hit smack in the face with the truth of reality.

It hurt a bit.

It didn’t matter, though. He hadn’t  _ expected  _ to see the boy. He just thought that it… would’ve been  _ nice  _ if he could’ve seen him again. Maybe they could’ve even had a conversation! He smiled at just the thought of it. It would be like interacting with the face of God.

Divine.

Still, he couldn’t lose sight of the real world. His slim chances of a dream come true were close to zero.

But a bit of him ached with hope, unwilling to let go of the thought in its entirety. 

Swallowing it, he went about searching the shelves once more, just procrastinating. He had no interest whatsoever in whatever the titles were all about, but it was just something to do.

It was all history this, history that, though. It got tiring after a while, skimming over collections of stories from the past. Secretly, he wished that people would stop making history. He longed for a world with no war, no power distribution, and no events to inspire lengthy, time wasting novels. 

He couldn’t understand it. Personally, he liked to stay on the down-low. Even if he saw that something was wrong with the world, he was never inclined to take action. It would fix itself in due time, right? Such acts of “heroism” were really acts of stupidity in his opinion. To play a part in such a thing was not really his thing.

Grantaire never wanted to be involved in history. That was for sure. He could not think of anything he was passionate enough about to fight for. Hell, to  _ die  _ for. The ignorance of sacrifice was something he could never understand.

No, not yet.

Giving up on looking through the shelves, he decided that it would just be best to go and sit down, maybe begin reading through a chapter or two of the book.

He had some time to lose.

So, checking it out and avidly avoiding eye contact with the librarian, he cradled the thick book in his hands and started down towards the common section of the library, where he could peruse it in peace. The common section was his least favorite part of the library, really. It was where all of the eagerly prestigious students went, so it was where he normally stayed away from.

But he had nothing else to do. Besides, there was no  _ harm _ in it.

Getting down to floor level, he made a beeline for the commons: chairs and tables. Scanning the area, he found that it was quite full. Students starving for endless knowledge read, or whispered together in pairs. It almost made him sick.

As he glanced around, a weird sort of discontent settled into his gut. He felt… disappointed. As if he had been expecting to see something but was greeted with another sight in its entirety. And the strange thing was, he hardly knew that he was looking for something. He didn’t even know his own wishes.

He frowned and continued forward, trying to find an empty seat as far away from anyone else as possible. He felt painfully out of place, as if it wasn’t as much of his library as the students’ around him. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes and questioned what he was even doing. On some unknown realization he had lost interest in the library entirely.

There was no point, was there?

He no longer had a reason for being there now that something random was missing. Turning around, he began to start towards the front of the library, towards the exit of the commons.

But then he saw it.

And his heart stopped.

A few meters in front of him, just to the side of his planned exit, was a table. He must have missed it when he entered, he must have already walked past it and then had proceeded to ignore it subconsciously. He cursed the filter in his mind and memory. 

But nevermind that, it wasn’t the  _ table  _ that was important, it was the two people sitting at it.

One was a scrawny (or  _ lanky _ , rather) man that Grantaire did not recognize, leaning over a book. He had neatly combed dirty blond hair, and wore rounded glasses that made him appear much more mature than any other university student that he had ever seen. But, upon further inspection, his facial structure and mannerisms all suggested that it was an act. He appeared to be relating heavily to an earlier generation that he was not a part of.

He was new, and he was interesting, but that wasn’t what Grantaire was concerned about. No, all he could focus on at the moment was the man next to him, crowding the other and speaking with intense passion at something referred to in the book. His personality burned brightly, and the room seemed instantly filled up by his presence. He would occasionally lean back for a brief second to push back his golden hair, before diving back in and speaking with even more fervor than before. He moved precisely, with a sort of planned tactfulness. Grantaire recognized him on sight.

It was  _ him _ , the statue, the blond boy, the subject of all of his paintings and oddly, all of his rare dreams. The item of his fixation. His (relatively) new nameless lifeline.

It almost knocked the wind out of him.

Within a second, his desire to stay there at the library came right back to him. He wanted to stay there forever, because there was suddenly no world outside of that room. He couldn’t explain it, even if he wished to.

He looked around and spotted an empty table close to that of the two men. Without much consideration of the idea, he made a beeline for it and set his stuff down. Setting the book aside, he pulled out his class sketchpad and a pencil instead. There it was, the perfect opportunity to get the most realistic drawing he had ever done. Maybe he could turn it in for credit? No. He decided that he couldn’t, that it was impossible, and shook the thought away.

Hoping that the two didn’t realize what he was doing, he turned to the side and started mindlessly sketching out the man’s dimensions whilst trying to convey his attitude of intensity and enthusiasm as well. It was a hard task, but he found himself being able to make it work.

His face, his soft features, his deep eyes, his curling hair, his commanding tone, the strength in his gestures, his overall beauty that Grantaire knew deep down inside that he would never be able to perfectly recreate because you cannot recreate life’s masterpiece as a mere man. But that couldn’t change the fact that he was going to  _ try _ .

With each and every mark that his pencil left on the paper, he was consumed with a crescendo of happiness. He hadn’t felt that way in God knows how long. He wasn’t quite sure why, but in his own personal opinion, it didn’t matter. No, not right then.

A while into the process, he began to zone out and focus more on the man’s voice. He had heard him talk before, but only a few times. Previously, his words were soft and quick, his voice mellow and almost sweet. And though he was only speaking at a very low volume, something had changed. He spoke with more confidence, like everything he said was an epiphany. His voice was no longer mellow and sweet, but smooth and daring. Grantaire smiled.

He tuned in on their conversation, wondering what in the world was so important that the two had to study it in a  _ public library _ .

“-The world has gone into ruins,” the statue claimed. “And even if they insist it hasn’t, they know that it is bound to within the next few years. These ‘elites’, the rich, know it, yet they choose to  _ ignore  _ it. The rich like to believe that they are the only ones occupying this world, the men living among the not quite men, and that their king will save them from the horrors that arise in the  _ execrable _ slums of Paris.”

The other man spoke up, his passion just under the surface rather than bubbling over. “That’s absurd.”

“The theory or the implications?” 

“The ladder,” he responded, shaking his head. His maturity echoed through his voice as he shook his head at the book in sorrow. “As long as people continue thinking like this nothing is going to get accomplished. Everything will just continue going downhill, and you know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think that it’s not just that they know it, but that they just  _ don’t care _ . The only thing worse than ignorance is apathy, and they are too blinded by their indifference that they physically cannot see a future where change is possible. They care for themselves and no one else, rudley ignoring how grateful they should be in the first place.”

Grantaire shuddered. He wasn’t quite sure what they were talking about (in fact he had no clue at all, if he was being honest), but something about the way they spoke irked him. It was the other guy in particular. He couldn’t find it in himself to think badly of the blond man, so his chills were the direct fault of the man with the glasses.

_ The only thing worse than ignorance is apathy _ .

Why did that make him uncomfortable?

But whatever, the blond was responding, and that meant that Grantaire had to listen up.

“ _ Exactly _ ,” he nodded. “But the question is, what do we  _ do _ about it? I’ve discussed some ideas with… you know, all of them, but we’ve never been able to find a clear cut answer.”

“Who says that we have to do something about it?”

“Are you  _ joking _ ?!” He almost jumped out of his chair. “The majority of successful uprisings of the people were sparked by young adults, people like you and me. This is the most appropriate age to take charge and set things right.”

He sighed and rubbed his face in his hands. “Alright,” he exhaled. “If that’s how you feel.”

“And do you  _ not  _ feel that way?”

Grantaire leaned towards them, figuring that they were too invested in their own conversation to really notice him. He drew quickly, trying to get it all down.

The other man turned to face him. “I do, I really do. But I’m just not quite sure if there  _ is _ an easy answer.”

The blond just glared at him intently, until he turned away back to the book and flipped the page almost guiltily. The former finally let down his stare after a moment or two and looked over his shoulder. Grantaire admired him. His strength and presence. He was emotionally invested.

He just couldn’t look away

“These are all lies,” the statue mused. “Lies, promising absolute power to the people while in reality they only plan to use their own power against them. And here-” he pointed at a passage. “Here, they refer to popular sovereignty as being full of plot holes, on and on and on, but they refuse to see the bigger picture.”

Grantaire leaned in closer.

Glasses: “It’s frustrating.”

He had zero clue what they were saying but at least it had a purpose.

Statue: “It is. It’s maddening that people believe this.”

He began to wonder if he would ever find out.

Glasses: “And it’s maddening to imagine such an ideology even existing.”

He wanted to know so desperately but despite listening intently to their words, he really couldn’t pay attention.

Statue: “And it’s maddening that…”

But Grantaire couldn’t hear the next thing he had said. Perhaps he had never even finished his sentence, but he didn’t know. All he  _ did  _ know was that he was stupid for staring at the two of them in the middle of a public library without expecting for either of them to notice. He was so utterly stupid to act like he was invisible, for the statue had caught his eye and was staring back at him with restrained confusion.

His heart stopped in his chest. Oh God. He immediately regretted everything, every single moment since he had first seen the blond a couple of weeks prior. It was all a crazy illusion, whatever wonderful personality he had created for him in his mind. It was all an illusion.

The illusion was broken, though. He could see through it clearly now that he was locking eyes with  _ him _ .

And time had stopped.

For a brief moment he felt entirely overwhelmed with melancholy longing. It was as if his entire life had been leading up to that exact second, and now that he was finally there and connections were being made, he was in bliss. The depth of a stranger’s cold eyes were oddly welcoming, as if he was arriving at some old home he had promised never to go back to.

But all that was only for a moment.

The moment  _ after  _ that was when the terror sunk in.

He was staring at him, which meant that he had noticed him, which meant that he most likely knew what he was doing, which meant that he had to have hated him by that point. Certainly. All hope was gone and although, being petrified, he could hardly move, he had the urge to jump up and get out of the library as soon as possible. Still, he couldn’t find it in himself to execute that urge.

“What are you doing?” the blond asked, his words crisp and his tone accusing.

It took him a second or two to find his voice. “I’m… uh… Nothing. Really nothing.”

He studied him, considering his answer. He seemed dissatisfied. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

Grantaire coughed. “...Why not?” He had forgotten how to breathe.

He looked to the man with the glasses, giving him an expression that Grantaire could not see, then turned back to him. He regarded him with distinguished conviction before ignoring his question all together and asking, “Are you... drawing us?”

Oh shit.

He tried his best to conceal his shock, but he was never really good at lying. Instead, figuring that the situation couldn’t get any worse than worst, he nodded slowly.

The man scoffed. His heart sunk in his chest.

“-But I can explain!” he called out of nowhere, probably a bit too loudly. Surely he should have just given up there and then, but something unknown was telling him to give  _ some  _ sort of explanation. To prove himself.

He smiled at Grantaire as if he was amused. It was a bit insulting, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Then what’s your explanation?”

He inhaled.  _ Oh Jesus, what  _ was  _ his explanation _ ? He chose just to wing it because honestly, the shit had already hit the fan. “I, um…” he started. “I’m an art student, you see, and one of our assignments was to like… draw people doing normal things in public.” He shook his head, cringing at how idiotic he sounded compared to the way that  _ they  _ spoke. Still, he dragged on.

“It’s a weird assignment thing, I know. I just have to do it because… because, because I need to do well. Good grades are all that matters in the long run, so… Yes.” That last part seemed necessary for some reason. He found the need to impress him by seeming dedicated to his study.

To his disappointment, he didn’t buy it.

“No,” he said. “No, learning and  _ applying _ the lesson is what matters in the long run. Not grades.”

Of course.

He didn’t know how to respond to that. Procrastinating, he looked away. Eventually, he said, “...That’s fair.”

A beat.

“But I’m sorry for bothering you. I sincerely apologize for making you feel, uh,  _ uncomfortable _ , if you will. That was never my intention. I just figured that the two of you seemed pretty smart and, what’s the word, dignified? Yes. And nobody wants portraits of unbecoming students like myself.” Then, lowering his voice, he said, “Or the other people here who have the nerve to deem themselves’ prodigies. Of what? I don’t know.

“My point is, I care about this class, probably just as much as you care about… whatever it is that you were reading and talking about. Something about ‘popular southern…?’ No, ‘sovereignty-’”

“You were  _ eavesdropping _ as well?!” the man said. Despite his words, he acted as if he found humor in the thought that an art student would eavesdrop on whatever he had to say.

Grantaire sighed. He wanted to die. “Not necessarily,” he shrugged, trying to play it off. “I wasn’t thinking about it too hard, if that’s what you mean. It was background noise to me, sort of going in one ear then out the other? Yeah? Once again, I never meant to offend you or anything of that sort. I don’t think I would even understand what you were talking about, honestly… What  _ were _ you talking about?”

The blond squinted at him. After a moment, he asked, “If you wouldn’t understand then why would you need to know?”

“Curiosity?”

He exhaled. “Curiosity is an excuse for stupid, impulsive decisions. A life based on curious bouts of whim is no life at all. If you want to know something, you go study it for yourself.”

“Isn’t curiosity the want to learn, though? To know more?”

“By definition, yes. But nine times out of ten it is used as a way to rationalize stupidity. It’s the difference between researching fire and throwing your hand into the flame. Caution is gone, right out the window. It’s dangerous, understand?” His voice curled up at the end of his sentence, as if he was speaking to a child.

Grantaire nodded. He understood. But then, something else occurred to him:

“Well, would you at least tell me your major? So that maybe I could let up on you because I’d have a general gist? That way I could get a better sense of your conversation.” He cringed. He meant for his words to come out more playful, joking, but they came out creepier instead. Whatever.

The blond man, the statue, didn’t gift him with an answer. Instead, he gave him a look that was completely unreadable, then turned back to the man with the glasses and continued their talk. This time, Grantaire was sure not to listen.

_ Damn _ . 

His Inspiration was different than he ever thought. At first he had thought of him as a passerby. A wonderfully angelic passerby, radiating divinity. He had painted a picture of him, both literally and metaphorically, as some epitome of innocence and beauty for whatever reason.

But, as he later found, there were mistakes in his interpretation. When he found him later, he had fixed some of those mistakes. Granted, it was mostly the physical ones (but still!). He had also been given the starter base of his personality, which was grand. He had learned that he was an intellectual, someone who cares deeply about studying and learning and all of that great stuff that Grantaire never really took any sort of interest in. But, it was interesting nonetheless. He had made  _ more  _ assumptions based on him that day. He was finding then that some of them were right. Others, not so much.

Still, he couldn’t help but revel in awe. Normally he turned his nose up in disgust at people such as him. Prestigious, stuck up, “gifted” good-for-nothings who stood on a pedestal of their own words. However, he was different. He was an intellectual, sure, and based on the way he talked, probably a bit prestigious. But, he was  _ different _ . He had an air to him that suggested not only that he cared about what he was studying, but that he fully intended to take action regarding it. He appeared to be what every other stuck up student dreamed to be. He knew his place in the world, and he was determined to keep it. How  _ interesting _ .

And for some reason that Grantaire couldn’t describe, it just made him more drawn to him.

Plus, at last! He had talked to him without running away! That was certainly a first. To Hell with it, it was an  _ extreme accomplishment  _ in his mind. Despite their argument, he still felt extraordinarily grateful for being able to speak with him just once.

But no. It wasn’t  _ despite  _ their argument, it was  _ because  _ of their argument. He couldn’t help but admit it, he was flattered that the statue had wasted his time on him. It made him feel worthy of (his) attention, a feeling that he wasn’t necessarily accustomed to.

It was nice.

Sadly though, there came a time when it all had to end.

Time was running out before he had to go to his first class, and it appeared that way for the two men near him as well. They started to clean up their table, sorting through any papers and noting their page in the book. Grantaire watched out of the corner of his eye as they stood up, stretched, and prepared to leave the library. 

It stung. He didn’t want for them to leave, not when the fun had just begun. He wanted to converse with them again, let the two of them plague his mind with ridiculous ideologies that he could never even begin to understand. He wanted for them to see his potential of attraction and to accept him without requiring his devotion to any certain cause. He wanted their rhetoric to be aimed at him and at  _ only  _ him in hopes that he would change his manners.

In short, he wanted an odd, twisted form of negative approval. He could hardly start to explain it.

But it didn’t seem like that dream would ever come true.

He watched (without really watching) them collect their belongings and begin to leave, aching to say something but not really knowing what. The man with the glasses led the way. He walked with perceived confidence, holding his head up high as he was probably trained to do so. It seemed that all rich boys learned how to walk properly, as if there ever was such a thing.

But the blond man, the statue, his Inspiration:  _ He  _ hesitated. He hung back for a moment, watching his friend go. It was odd to Grantaire, seeing him all indecisive about something. He figured that it would just be best to begin to let it all go, so he looked down at his hands and preoccupied himself with his nails, trying to seem as inconspicuous as possible.

However, he could still sense him. He had a feel for where he was, reluctantly determining what move to take next. His thought process only lasted a moment or two, though, because once he made up his mind he acted on it.

Fast.

Within one second he had marched straight over to Grantaire, who, by the way, felt his heart catch in his throat.  _ What in the universe _ …

But the universe wasn’t listening. It was too intent on making such a miracle happen for him, too tuned in to convincing the man to approach him that it had no choice but to ignore him. Nevertheless, it seemed that for once the cosmos was on his side. He couldn’t even  _ begin  _ to wonder why. Or how.

But questions didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was there, standing over him, opening his mouth to say something.

Unprompted.

_ To him _ .

Grantaire held his breath.

“Political science,” he said.

“What?” Grantaire looked up at him, immediately forgetting the cosmos and its infinite power as soon as he met his eyes. He had zero clue what he was talking about, but who cares? He sure didn’t.

“You asked me about my major,” the blond man said, scanning his face with suspicion. “So I just gave it to you.” He seemed awkward, a different picture than during their small little dispute only minutes before. A different person.  _ A different portrait _ . 

Grantaire nodded. “...Your major,” was all he was able to say.

The man smiled, entertained by his distractedness. His smile was riveting, to say the least. But, he took the bait and played along, letting down his guard only slightly. He was going easy on him. That was good.

“Political science,” he said again, as if prompting for him to remember. “I don’t think that it’s respectful to leave people hanging.” Whatever that meant.

And then he turned and ran after his friend with the glasses.

Political science. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that's that!!  
> i don't recall if hugo actually said what enjolras studied but idec im going with political science  
> (also this fic is really going to show that i'm the type of person who references 1984 in her AP Government/Politics test. It was a sad moment.)
> 
> But yup. That's all. Stay safe pls
> 
> -dani (reallyquitegay)


	4. Paint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back. Sort of. Sorry, I just disappeared from Earth for a bit.  
> There's a bit of French in here since ~i have family in france so i picked up a teeny tiny bit~, but i'll add a translation at the very end.  
> Enjoy, friend!

School has a silly way of sneaking up on you.

It pushes and pulls you in different directions, _insisting_ that it will all be alright and that you are only trying half as hard as you are truly cut out for. It plays mind games, overly simplifying its own workload as to trick you into thinking it is really not all that bad.

Nonetheless, it really _is_ all that bad (only- it would never admit such a thing). 

Grantaire often felt as if he was left in the dust when it came to school. To go to university was an unusual experience, for only those who really craved social attention intended to attend. The percentage of students actually hoping to learn was miniscule. In 1800s France, every school was a party school.

So, maybe that’s why he chose to attend. Maybe he just wanted to get out of social isolation, or perhaps he was just sick of being without a home. Looking back on it all, he was really not sure. But, on one thing he was positive. He had _not_ attended for the schoolwork. In reality, he loathed the work portion. He had an odd interest in the educational lectures on whatever, but when it came to reading leather-bound books by candlelight in the middle of the night, he could not find it in himself to be anything but apathetic.

Oh, dear apathy. How could he learn to live without it if it stole all his motivation to try?

Still, he had to carry on. So, he read. He read until his eyes hurt and the words lacked continuity. He read until he could no longer remember how a sentence had started by the time he reached the end of it. Then, just to stay awake, he began to doodle.

Slowly, _softly_ , he let the graphite in his pencil glide across a thin piece of paper, careful not to rip it. He drew flowers first- flowers of all kinds. He let his hand drip gray petals on sketched leaves, hoping that the melting images would one day become real, if such a thing existed. The flowers curled with growing vines crawling up the page. Soon enough, he had lost interest in his book and could only really focus on his sketches.

Enough. He pushed the book aside and continued.

Once flowers and vines filled up the paper, he flipped it over without a second thought and began working on something else- a person. People are delicate creatures, so exceedingly perceptive and tough yet taught with worries and soft with life. He deeply admired the soft curling of hair and the distinct texture of skin.

He started simply, sketching out the body design and posture. It was going to be a woman; he knew that much. So, lightly and mindlessly, he started on her.

He did not find “beauty” to be defined by one single definition, for beauty changes throughout the years. In the moment, luscious curves were something to be desired, for they suggested that a woman was rich enough to be healthily fed. However, that hadn’t always been the case. And, he was sure that one day, one day soon, that would all change again.

Still, he couldn’t help but admit that there was something exciting about drawing someone attractive by the day’s standards. So, he could not hesitate to draw in her curves and marvel in her softness. Slowly, he prepared her face and let her hair drip down her back like melted candle wax. He was tempted to draw her bare, yet something about that felt forbidden. So instead, he wrapped her in white, like an angel.

 _An angel_.

Yes, yes- _that was it_. She was a wonderful angel, characterized by her comforting gaze. Her name was… her name didn’t matter (for names do not make one distinct from another). 

He sketched this nameless angel’s wings and for a split second, wished that she could fly away. For just this fleeting moment, he felt bad for having trapped her in paper, frozen in eternity. But then again- she was not real. He had simply made her up.

He sighed, despair washing over his heart like an old friend. He wished she were real, for then he could give it to her as a gift of affection. He had to admit, she was beautiful in his eyes, and gifting her with a portrait of her beauty would only help him get closer to her.

But then, upon that thought, a glorious realization struck him. This woman may not exist, and he may not ever receive the blessing of being attached to her arm, but there was one person whom he’d drawn that he could perhaps make a friend out of. He needed a friend, and what better person than one whose face he could never forget?

So, pushing the woman aside delicately (as if not to hurt her), he picked up his newest sketchpad and flipped to his most recent drawing of the man with the golden hair- the one he had done at the library. _Yes_. He had finished it at home later that day, pushing aside all guilt and turning it into amusement.

But he could not give it to him like this, for this sketch was bare. It lacked color, it lacked _explosion_ , and this man was one of distinction and dignity. He deserved color.

Grantaire was not dubious in grabbing the bit of paint he had. He was aware that it was necessary yet expensive, and was to be used only for school exclusively. Plus, it smelled strongly of oil. But, that was not an issue if he held his breath. He insisted. Once it dried, the smell would disappear.

And so, using only a miniscule amount, he splashed color where he saw necessary. He mixed yellow with a bit of tan to create the perfect gold color, and painted in the man’s skin with a sort of touched beige. He wished ever so desperately that he could afford blue (for his eyes), but alas, he could not even afford to _daydream_ about such a color. Maybe if paint manufacturers could reach into the sky and have blue drip through the clouds, then there would be enough for all.

But that was not the case.

So, he left the man’s eyes blank, hoping that he would not notice.

And that was that.

Perfect.

Grantaire had a tendency to run into the blond man at the most uncritical of times, so he wondered when the next time he would see him would be. Deciding to be optimistic for once, he saw it wise to carry the painting around whenever he could. It was rather small, so that shouldn’t be such a terrible feat.

And- he knew this man’s major. Maybe if he passed the political science building, the hall, he could run into him and hand it to him in secret. If he could do all of this, perhaps early next morning, then it could be complete. A friendship would have the ability to be formed.

How wonderful!

So, just in case the acclaimed date was tomorrow, he jotted down a short note on the page (that is, if he happened to read it… _if he happened to accept it_ ):

_Salut!_

_C’est le dessin que j'ai esquissé il y a quelques jours. Tu sais, dans_ _la bibliothèque. J’ai pensé que tu pourrais le vouloir._

_-R_

There we go.

Good enough.

Hopefully that would be all it would take.

But, as he was a natural realist, Grantaire wasn’t so grand at hoping.

However, he found himself wishing on the star outside his window later that night that the man would accept it and in turn, accept him.

Perhaps it would turn out to be a miracle?

Oh, it would take one alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Rough Translation:  
> Hi!  
> This is the sketch that I drew the other day. You know, at the library. I thought you might like it.  
> -R)  
> That is it!! Sorry it is short :(
> 
> -reallyquitegay


	5. Enjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spell "nevermind" as one word because i believe strongly that that's what it should by :,)

In all honesty, there was something a bit odd about an art student standing in front of the political science hall, idling with his hands in his pockets, trapped inside his own head.

Art and science were forever on opposite planes of existence. One who believes in art hardly ever can muster the focus to dedicate any sort of time to science (and vice versa). There is no real, psychological evidence to support this claim, but it does seem to always be the case, does it not? Perhaps this awkwardness is caused simply because science is a study of the mind while art is a study of the heart. Those who think over their emotions have a tendency to forget how to use them. Likewise, sometimes those who think  _ with  _ their emotions forget how to draw solid conclusions. You cannot win!

But once again, art and science cannot coexist within the same soul- or that’s how it seems to be. Grantaire, with his fixation in paint and color and beauty, thought of the world as if it was a dull match, just waiting to be sparked. However, this blond man studied political science. He saw everything through the lense of one intent: to never be in the wrong. While Grantaire saw the life beneath the soil, the blond man was too busy studying the components of the dirt. 

However, political science  _ is  _ theoretical. Perhaps…

Nevermind that, nevermind that. The point was: Grantaire, in all his inelegance, felt a bit odd standing in the middle of the political science hall- which was shared with law, believe it or not. He had not realized that until that sudden moment, and the fact that he was hanging around and about future lawyers frightened him. Of course, he had done nothing wrong, but lawyers tend to be the most sober of the sober.  _ He _ was just a common drunk.

Looking about, he tried to keep an eye out for the man (statue, inspiration, etc., he  _ must  _ have a name, you know, so we’ll get to that soon enough). However, all he saw was preppy students, lost in their future studies. They all seemed wide awake, too. It seemed that every snobby, rich, smart kid was a morning person.

Grantaire found himself wondering if the blond man found it hard to wake up in the morning like he did… It was an odd consideration, but the thought of it was vaguely amusing and sure did make him seem a lot more human. He figured that shrinking the man down from this statue of beauty to simply what he was, a  _ person _ , would make talking to him a lot easier. He was simply giving him a gift, what was there to be afraid of?

Rejection. There was rejection to be afraid of, to be  _ petrified  _ by.

Nevertheless, it seemed to be working. Grantaire wished to see him so desperately that even the thought of rejection by him was dignifying. His attention was like a drug, positive or not.

So, it was working.

That is, it was working quite well up until the moment he spotted him.

The blond man was spotted walking rather quickly with two other students on either side of him, talking intently. Looking closer, Grantaire realized that he did not recognize either of the other two students. Neither of them wore glasses, that was for sure. They both looked distinctly intelligent, but as far as he could tell, they were not quite stuck-up.

One of the students wore a dark waistcoat and looked as if he hadn’t really taken out the time to comb his hair that morning. As the blond talked, he nodded excitedly. He was not afraid to interrupt him at times to talk in a fit of passion, which seemed to anger the blond man a bit.

As for the other, he seemed to be having a bit of a time trying to stay close to the two impassioned students. That being said, he  _ was _ listening intently. He was dressed a bit more casually, but he looked nice nonetheless. Smart. Then, as he tried to keep up, he tripped a bit, but the blond man caught him quickly and then turned back to the other student, as if this were a common occurrence. As for the one who tripped: he just smiled.

As the three got closer to the hall, Grantaire tensed up. His moment was coming,  _ his moment was coming _ ! He was stupidly excited, but still scared to death (and to think, he wasn’t even afraid of death!).

Suddenly, he began to wonder about the other two students. He wasn’t planning for the man to be accompanied by anyone when he gave him the painting, so such a feat was now compromised. But, this was not a problem for very long, for where the law wing split off, the two wished the man goodbye and strolled off to class that way instead.

_ So they were law students. _

For a moment, for a split second, Grantaire was struck with fear at the thought that the blond could have lied to him about his studies. He would have made a fool of him if that was the truth. However, though Grantaire did not even have a sense of his name, he was sure that he was not one to lie. If he was as politically correct as he seemed, then he must have some sort of vendetta across liars (which is silly, since most politicians seem to fib more than they display honesty).

Luckily, that was not the case. The man continued to the political science wing and then suddenly he was closer and closer and he had passed him and all Grantaire could do was to call out:

“ _ Monsieur _ !”

The man stopped and turned to him, startled at his short outburst. Grantaire caught his eye and tried to beckon him to come closer so that they could talk, but he clearly was not getting the hint. So, trying to stay calm and keep his cool, he said softly, “Come here for a moment, will you?”

The man looked around, surveying the scene. Making sure that this creep was safe enough to approach. Once he figured it was alright to do so, he closed into Grantaire with hesitance and caution. The way he moved was precise and calculated, something mirrored in the past.

Once he got close enough to him however, he seemed to recognize him. His face blanched as he said, “You’re the art student from the library, aren’t you?”

Grantaire, unsure of what to say, simply nodded. The blond man seemed to be a bit offended for one reason or another, but Grantaire figured that that was something he simply could not help. His mere existence was offensive, and really, what could he do about that? Eventually, after a long pause, he cleared his throat. “So, um, about the library,” he started. “I figured that I could make something a bit… a bit  _ better  _ for my assignment. For class. And, I didn’t want to keep this portrait of someone who I didn’t even know, so I figured it would make the most sense for the subject to have it.”

The man just stared at him.

“...The subject being you.”

“Yes, I am aware whom the subject is,” he said, finally breaking his shocked silence in a rather assertive manner. 

Grantaire, hoping to keep him interested so that he wouldn’t just decide that he wasn’t worth his attention and that it would be better just to walk away, reached into his pocket and pulled out the painting (which had been folded into fourths, of course). He handed it to the man, who took it slowly, as if he did not quite trust him.

“You can open it, you know.”

And so, still looking at him in confusion, the blond unfolded the paper carefully and delicately, as if to not rip it. Then, the moment of truth came, and he looked down at it.

And back up at him.

Then back down to the painting. 

“This is... odd,” he said.

Grantaire felt his heart sink.  _ Ouch _ . He had previously decided to anticipate rejection, but that did not mean that it would not hurt. “How so?” he asked, surprised that he managed to keep his voice from breaking.

“It is odd in the sense that… an art student would paint someone without their consent. I mean- this is a good painting. Don’t get me wrong, it  _ is _ very good. You have talent, you see. But, I don’t quite know what to make of it.”

Grantaire shrugged, slightly relieved that the man found the intent of putting instead of the work. “You don’t have to make anything of it. You can throw it out if you’d like, I wouldn’t mind. I just… well you can read, I gather.” He gestured vaguely towards the note that he had written, suddenly embarrassed at his own messy handwriting.

The blond turned the paper at an angle to read the note, which took him only a moment to do so. The ability to read, and to read so clearly, was not something extraordinarily common, especially among those on the streets. However, this was a university, so Grantaire really should have not been impressed in the slightest.

Yet, he was.

After a moment, the blond nodded slowly to himself. “Your name is ‘R’?” he asked, amusement once again echoing through his voice (his amusement was a flurry of joy).

Grantaire swallowed. “Um,  _ sort of _ .”

He raised an eyebrow in suspicion. “Sort of?”

“Yes. The pronunciation of the letter ‘R’ sort of sounds like how you say my name… my surname.”

“And what  _ is  _ your name?”

Oh God. 

If he permitted himself to do so, he was about to have a proper, formal introduction with the statue/blond/beauty/Inspiration. If hope in all its entirety led him to said moment, he was a blind optimist. 

So, without any shred of doubt and ready to introduce himself to the man whom he had made into art, he bowed a bit and said, “Grantaire.”

“Grantaire,” the blond repeated to himself. Then, to him: “I’ll make note to remember that.”

Grantaire suddenly felt his heart jump in his chest, beating at the speed of light.  _ I’ll make note to remember that _ . What did that even  _ mean _ ? Why would the man wish to know his name? Did he also feel some sort of connection along their souls? Had his light dimmed itself as to make room for another?

No, no of course not.

But, he could not help but ask (since there was no true harm in a question…), “Why do you want to remember my name?”’

The man’s eyes softened, the glaze of coldness soothing and warm for just a split second. “Well,” he said, “because you have put effort into making something, however odd I might find it. The least I can do in return is to learn who you are.”

Grantaire repressed a smile. “Well, thank you.”

He nodded, then took a deep breath- after which the cold marble returned to his gaze and so, he remained more than human: instead a symbol of Godly possession once more. Then, assuming that their talk was over and probably in the mindset that he would never see him again, the man refolded the painting and tucked it into one of his books. A secret. 

And then he was off.

But oh dear, oh  _ gosh _ . Grantaire had given him his own name, but he had forgotten to ask  _ his _ in return. So, desperate and beside himself, he ran off after him. “Hey, wait one moment!”

The statue turned around again, seemingly annoyed at his constant disturbance. He  _ was  _ just trying to get to class, after all. However, he somehow managed to keep his composure: 

“Yes?”

Grantaire, relieved that he had gotten him back, took a moment to catch his breath, letting his heart fall back from his throat into his chest. “I just… I gave you my name,” he said, unable really to explain what he was asking from him.

“Yes, yes you did, Grantaire,” he replied slowly, once again speaking down to him like a child. An inferior. “What about it?”   


“I would like to know yours, is all. Will you permit it?”

“Permit what?”

“An introduction. A proper one.”

In response, the blond man simply sighed. His time was being painfully wasted by some needy, artistic alcoholic, and looking around he found that he had no friends to latch on to for an escape. Glasses, Waistcoat, and Clumsy were all gone, studying their own studies. He was on his own, was he not? 

So perhaps it would just be the best to comply.

“Yes, I permit it,” he finally said. And then, holding out his hand in a perfectly formal fashion (as requested), he smiled neatly and said:

“My name is Enjolras.”

And before Grantaire could respond, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So this ending note is a bit longer because I actually ~have some things to say~. Okay, here we go:
> 
> 1) Y'all we've finally got Enjolras' name. I am super excited about this cuz enj is like... ethereal. I know that this fic is gonna be super loooong but TRUST ME we will get going with some cute shit soon.
> 
> 2) Thank you so freaking much for the nice comments and kudos!! Ya'll make me so damn happy like wtf haha. Like seriously you inspire me to keep going just by READING this and getting this far so thank you!!! <3
> 
> 3) I have already written the next chapter (I still have to edit/revise it a bit so rip) and I'm just curious on when I should post it lmao. Soooooo... comment something when you see this and I'll post it then cuz i am ~bad with timing~.
> 
> Anyways that's that!!! 
> 
> -dani (reallyquitegay)


	6. The Beauty in a Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so there's a lot of political talk in here about like... governmental theories and stuff nothing modern day just... yea. political history. i took an ~ap course~ on government soooooooo idrk what the average amount of knowledge is so ill just put this good website i found here for help if you need any lmao: http://www.thuto.org/ubh/ub/h202/fr19p1.htm
> 
> enjoy.

Enjolras.

Enjolras, Enjolras, _Enjolras_.

It had been a couple days since Grantaire had first heard that name, yet it was still constantly on the tip of his tongue. The name itself sounded ethereal, as if it was crafted to fit him and only him. Only one of such perfection was deserving of a name like “Enjolras”. Only one of such beauty could merit a name that feels so wonderful to say. Every single time that Grantaire would whisper it under his breath (which was as often as possible), he was caught with admiration in the softness of just one word. The syllables clicked, and the vowels rolled off the tongue like silk. It was the type of name that could be repeated over and over again and would still sound brand new each and every time.

And, finally! He had a name! While Grantaire did not particularly care for names, since his own sounded like a pun undone to itself, he could not refute the implied fact; there is a type of intimacy in a formal introduction. His name- after all this time, he had one _at last_! He was no longer Inspiration, the blond, the beauty, or the statue, but _Enjolras_. Enjolras! The name suddenly became a singular word to describe all endearing terms that Grantaire had ever referred to him as in his head. The name itself was suddenly an addition to his belief in unwavering beauty.

Yet upon this thought, Grantaire would be occasionally struck with the uncomfortable realization that he was not the one with the perfect face and the golden name. He was simply himself. Enough was said about that. He was envious. He fixed another in his mind’s eye as a source of happiness and confidence, yet he himself could not dispense with the idea that he was imperfect. He did not have beauty. He could observe and create it, but he would never be able to allow it to envelope him, for some are made just to remain disagreeable. Repellent. Unlovable. Some are made just to lack beauty, for the absence of which allows those fortunate enough to be beautiful to shine even brighter.

However, Grantaire (in all his thoughtfulness) had never truly comprehended that beauty is entirely subjective. In other words, some people like the rain and others do not, and that is that.

Still, lost in the thought of beauty (but despite himself), he was happy. Finally, he could state with joy that he was satisfied with life. After learning his name, he could not find it in himself to part with such glee.

Also, soon enough he would find that the name _Enjolras_ is not only fun to say, but to write! The day previously mentioned (the day just a few days later), he had started taking a liking to sketching Enjolras with his name displayed all around him. The harshness of the _E_ to the smoothness of the _n_ , the curl of the _j_ and the flow of the _s_ : they were all enough to leave him ecstatic. 

He was happy!

But, with such uncontrolled happiness can occasionally come a sense of passiveness (in which indifference to all but one’s source of joy is included). Grantaire, who had previously cared perhaps a bit too much about academic performance and achievements, had practically forgotten about school. His studies were no longer on the forefront of his mind. Even in lectures, he could not pay attention. His thoughts were forever stained with Enjolras’ name.

Likewise, time that he would normally reserve for his studies was quickly used instead for sketches and paintings and thoughts and art. His books were consistently pushed to the side. In fact, they seemed to have found a new home there, sitting at the corner of his desk. He told himself that it was best not to disturb them as an excuse (a stupid excuse, really).

And so, he was haunted by Enjolras, with his marble skin and his ocean eyes. The way his gold hair seemed to soak up the sun like a halo was ever so mystifying. Grantaire could not help but let the thought of him in his entirety consume his life.

That being said, there _were_ ways to wake him up out of his (only _seemingly_ never-ending) trance, a prime example of which is to have a stranger knock on his door in the middle of the night.

Which is exactly what happened on that previously, endlessly mentioned day.

The knock startled him at first, because he was a lonely bugger with no friends and a family far too far south to visit without warning. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it was Enjolras, but that thought was gone as quickly as it had come as he realized that he had not given him his complex, let alone his specific address.

So, he truly had no clue who it could be.

Tentatively, he went to the door. He considered if he should open it or not, or if he should just perhaps call out and see if the person answers, but he eventually decided to just go along with it. _To Hell with it_.

Now, without delay and with confidence provided by his new joy, he swung the door open.

And, smiling there in front of him, was a student he did not recognize.

He could not recall if he had seen him around before, that is, and by the likes of it, probably not. His hair was a musty sort of blond that framed his face in a sweet sort of manner. He wore a brown coat and heavy boots, yet he seemed to be of a rich background judging by the way he smiled. He was handsome, and he knew it. In his grin was the type of confidence that drew women to his arm and men to his words.

However, despite all that, he did not talk.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Can I help you?” he asked.

The student rocked on his heels and nodded. Then, finally, he spoke. His voice filled with dignity yet friendliness, he said, “Yes, hi. I’m a law student, but I have a few friends who are in political studies. The group of us have some… dignified and distinct beliefs about the French government at the moment, and we are taking a poll to gauge the beliefs of other young students around campus. So, I’m going door to door to ask people some questions. Understand?”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Yeah, sure,” he said, confused about what sort of law student was brave enough to go around taking a poll that wasn’t even for a class.

Nevertheless, the student just grinned even more. “Great!” he exclaimed, taking a pad of paper and a pencil out of his coat pocket. The paper already had words scribbled on it (other people’s responses he assumed). Then, looking back up at Grantaire, the student said, “It’s only two questions.”

“Okay?”

“And the first one is terribly easy: What is your name?”

“Grantaire. Like ‘ _Grand-R_ ’’, but with a _t_ rather than a _d_.”

The student looked at him sideways for a moment, as if he recognized his name, but he soon decided to just ignore it and jotted it down. “My name is Courfeyrac, by the way,” he said quietly. “I should have mentioned that, but nevermind it. The second question is: do you support the monarch?”

“What?”

“Do you support the monarchy.”

He sniffed. “No, I know what you mean but… I’m an art student. I don’t tend to have opinions on… _politics_ and things like that.”

Courfeyrac looked a bit offended. “But _surely_ you know if you support France’s system, right? I mean- you must have some belief, no matter how important it is to you.”

Grantaire shrugged. “I guess if I _had_ to choose, I’d say no,” he said. “It’s just… it’s all too _loud_.”

He squinted at him out of curiosity (rather than judgement). “How so?”

“I’m not sure, I’m not very political. It’s just- everyone is always so stressed out and tense about it. It causes more conflicts than it solves and in all honesty, it just freaks me out. The monarchy is just sort of this... benign being that _pretends_ that it is fulfilling promises made to the people, when in reality it is doing nothing. Its indifference causes the people to lash out, and well… Let me put it this way: if the people had a say in things, these annoying and awkward tensions would never arise. So, no.”

Courfeyrac quickly jotted down something else, some other note that Grantaire could not quite read, but then he quickly closed his notepad and stuck it and his pencil back into the depths of his pocket. “Alright, that was all,” he smiled, obviously approving of his answer. “Thank you for participating.”

Grantaire, unsure of what really to do, said, “Anytime,” and then closed the door and returned back to his desk.

Jesus, _politics_.

He hated politics with all his heart. He could not even _imagine_ choosing a study entirely dedicated to theoretical government ideologies. Government was, in his mind, a complete and utter ploy. By whom? He was unsure. He was just convinced that there were so many easier ways for life to be controlled than to have some singular king or president or whatever residing over his wealth like a dog.

And then there were political scandals, oh _dear_ political scandals! Whenever some war revolutionary, or a heroic mayor of some sort, passes on to whatever comes after life, radicals were never late to stake claim onto which governmental property their lifeless body should be paraded through. People would get so utterly infuriated that lives would be _ruined_ due to one dead man. If politics caused so many issues, he could not believe why others were so utterly interested in them.

And the monarchy, _the monarchy_ _was in the past_. Once again: history. He did not like history. Napoleon, whom he believed Courfeyrac was talking about, was long since defeated. Yet still, there was a “king”, which he himself was referring to, but the reactionaries were no better than the moderates. 

The radicals were too radical and the moderates were too moderate. There was no clear, clean ground where those in power could talk everything out. _That_ was the problem.

And then there was the larger issue with the people of France, all of the unfortunate beggars and thieves with no say in it all…

Not to mention all the bonds given then lost, or the lying nobles who insist that all power is distributed when in reality it is absolute, but all that did not matter. All that was just headache-inducing and in all honesty, Grantaire did not believe he had the strength to even _think_ about government any longer; it was just too stressful

(It literally gave him a headache.)

“I need some wine,” he muttered under his breath to no one in particular. Alcohol seemed to be the only solution to his stress. Jesus, if everyone could just drink alcohol 24/7, the world would be problem-free.

It was the smart people, the intellectuals who pretended that they knew everything when in fact they really knew nothing; _they_ were the problems.

They insisted that they wouldn’t make the same mistakes as others had previously in “history”. They constantly insisted that they knew better, and that they would be forever superior to those inconsiderates who walked blindly into issues with their fate already predestined. However, in every instance, the present intellectuals are _wrong_ . They _do_ make the same mistakes because however foreseeable accidents may seem after the fact, there is always a calm before the storm that comforts those involved and supports them through all the wrong choices. Facts noted, ignored, _facts_ don’t matter. All that ever seemed to matter to those with the power was that they _keep_ their power.

And God, no matter what they say, they are never, _ever_ looking forward to the future, for politicians are too often far too preoccupied with the past. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yes it is meeee  
> i just failed my driver's test for misreading a sign in a parking lot  
> and i am also very high on caffeine rn because i have not slept in many days  
> pls i crave death
> 
> -dani (reallyquitegay)


	7. Addiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i posted another today cuz -we're so close to 200 hits and that makes me happy (edit: we got there!! thank you ahh!!)-  
> this chapter is rather short but it's mainly just to set up for the next one. but enjolras is in it! so yay  
> (also, TW about addiction and alcoholism? yes.)

When Grantaire awoke, he was not quite surprised to be greeted almost immediately by a pounding headache. It was a feeling that he was well acquainted with (being a certified drunk, and all), so it didn’t have a right to be a burden to him. In fact, the lasting drag of a hangover greeted him almost as if it was his old friend. There  _ is  _ a drug in negativity and suffering, after all.

The previous night, in considering political pains and indulging in stress, his only resort to relief was to pour himself a glass of wine and continue onwards with his night. Soon, that one glass of wine turned into two and then, as it tends to go... a bit too many.

However, it was not as if he was necessarily a  _ bad _ drunk. (Depending on the circumstances of course), he was often relatively calm. Contrary to popular belief, all alcohol really does is enhance your prominent expression in the moment (if you are not considering all of the physical aspects of it as well). So, as Grantaire was not one known to express much expression, all he could really do was laugh a bit too loud and draw crude art out of spite. He would never do anything truly dangerous, that is. Or at least, he didn’t think so. He felt alright!

But, the morning after was a different story. The morning after, all he really wanted to do was to cover himself up with blankets, fall asleep, and never wake up. It was with heavy force and extreme determination that he was able to get up and dressed, but then again, such “elegance” can only really come from a practiced alcoholic. He never really got used to the feeling, but he learned how to handle it. 

For you see, that’s all we can really do with our monsters. 

Learn to manage.

Nevertheless, he had class, and class was a living hell. He felt about ready to die once he was ready to leave, and contemplated just returning to bed and claiming later that he was sick (it wouldn’t be far from the truth, would it?). But, he could not risk missing a day of class. One lecture lost would just push him behind, and he could not have that. He simply could not.

But- how could he survive? Hungover and sick to his stomach, the only thing that he could really think up that he figured would fix at least some of his pain was… more alcohol. It was stupid, and he knew that he would regret it later, but he couldn’t  _ help _ himself. He had a full flask from the night before and in all honesty, he was not prepared to go throughout his day sober, especially not hungover.

So, he grabbed the flask and went on his way.

The first thing he noticed after he stepped out of his apartment complex was how damn  _ bright  _ it was. The world seemed to have fallen into the sun. Every window seemed to glow. Everywhere he looked, it was as if he was staring straight into a burning flame. All he could really do to protect himself was to squint, cover his face, and hope for the best. Trying not to look  _ too  _ hungover, he made sure to walk with correct posture and smile at strangers, but eventually he had to give up the game. There was no shame in being a victim of your past.

Whatever. Shielding his eyes and attempting to appear at least half normal, he continued onwards, stopping once every few minutes to take a sip from the flask. It  _ was _ making him feel a bit better, and if he could continue it throughout the day in moderation, then, perhaps he would be able to make it. Perhaps he would be able to-

“Grantaire!”

The calling of his name awoke him from his thoughts, startling him into submission. He felt jarred awake from a dream, like a deer in the headlights. Then, upon further consideration, he concluded that what he heard  _ must  _ have been some sort of hallucination. Once again, it was not as if he had any friends who would run across a promenade to meet him, calling him. 

Screw it. 

It wasn’t as if he had any friends at  _ all _ .

So, it was reasonable that at first, he thought he was just hearing things. When he was this especially out of it, hungover and on the verge of being tipsy, he had learned to try not to question his senses too much. Likewise, he had learned not to  _ trust _ them either. They were made for simple observations, and if he sensed something that didn’t make sense, then it probably wasn’t actually happening. Sometimes his soul and his body could not agree, which was alright. They didn’t have to. He didn’t mind.

However, when he didn’t respond, whoever it was called out again: “ _ Grantaire _ !”

This time, it sounded closer. More real. Letting his confusion get the best of him, he stopped dead in his tracks (thankfully no one was walking directly behind him at the time). Disoriented and muddled, he turned to search for whoever had been calling out his name, trying to gain his wavering attention. 

At first, he didn’t spot anyone. He could hardly perceive by-passer's faces and what was going on in the world around him. So, it  _ did _ make sense- technically - that he didn’t quite see (or notice, rather) Enjolras until he was right in front of him.

_ Oh gosh _ .

In all of their previous encounters, Grantaire was always the one to initiate the confrontations. It was  _ he  _ who had dropped his pencil, stared at him from across the library, drew him from afar, and then gifted him with a painting. Each and every time, Enjolras was just the victim of a stranger’s attention. He was the sole receiver of Grantaire’s intent, and had no real say in the matter. In fact, Grantaire had been starting to feel a bit guilty, for whenever they met eyes he was hit with the thought that he wasn’t really worth Enjolras’ time for one reason or another.

But, that had all gone out the window.

Enjolras was talking to him  _ first _ . And he knew his  _ name _ . He had taken action to spend his time on a hopeless case such as Grantaire, which was heavenly. It was reassurance that maybe, just maybe, they were becoming something. Friends, friendly strangers,  _ whatever _ . They knew each other, and that was all that truly mattered. And now, Enjolras was standing in front of Grantaire, wishing for him to grant him his attention. 

He couldn’t help himself from willingly giving it over.

“Enjolras…” he said, admiring the way his name seemed to flow like an ocean wave across the sea floor. Trying his best not to show how damn hungover he was feeling, he tried his best to avoid looking into his eyes. However, it was sort of impossible not to. The way that they reflected the morning sun like dew tends to do on blades of grass made him feel vaguely sick. His eyes were mystifying in a sense. Enchanting. It was like looking into the sun- it made him entranced yet apprehensive. He knew that it hurt, but for some reason, the forbidden sense of it encouraged him to continue staring.

Oh gosh.

“What is it?” he asked.

Enjolras took a moment to catch his breath. Then, with appraisal and in a straight-forward, satisfactory voice, he stated, “You do not support the monarchy, do you?”

Grantaire was caught off guard at his words. He had a sudden deja-vu, as if he had heard that question before. It wasn’t until a solid five seconds later did he realize that it was because that was what the student - Courfeyrac - had asked him just the previous night.  _ Jesus _ . How silly of him to drink away his memories, ay?

Unsure of what to say, he took a deep breath and said, “Why do you ask?”

“I ask because I must know. Just tell me. Please.”

“Um… no. I don’t,” he said. Before continuing, he made sure that Enjolras did not have that familiar hard glaze of judgement over his eyes. Rather (and more to his liking), he found interest and praise lurking in the depths of his rich soul. So, prompted, he continued.

“I really have no interest in politics though, you must understand. It’s all too complicated and involved and over demanding. I  _ personally _ suppose that it just would be easier if people who actually knew what they were talking about had a say in political issues instead of just… the king. One guy. I don’t trust him, is what I guess I am saying.”

Enjolras sighed. “You say that you have no interest in politics, but you seem to have a pretty well formed opinion on it.”

He cocked his head. “You think?” Then, shrugging, he said, “I guess… a monarchy does not allow one to be as apathetic as they wish to be. But really, I don’t think about it too much. Hardly ever, really.”

Enjolras took a moment to respond. He studied him, looking him up and down and attempting to understand his point of view. He was obviously an opinionated individual, his beliefs strong and fueled with passion. He found that endearing in sense, but also - in a slight manner - disturbing.

Eventually though, Enjolras had decided that Grantaire was actually worth the sharing of his oh-so-precious opinions, and he nodded with confidence. “It doesn’t matter how much you truly care, what matters is that you are another voice that is sick of one man ruling the entirety of France. Now, if the right man was on the throne that would be a different story, but...” his voice trailed off slowly.

“But what?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. I can tell you more later. The point is, I have some friends, one of which I believe you have already met. Courfeyrac?”

“Yes, I met him.”

He smiled, which was a glorious sight. “Good,” he praised. “These students and I, we have these occasional meetings where we make plans for a future revolution. An… an  _ uprising  _ if you will,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’re not quite sure where we are going with this, but one day all this  _ tyranny _ will be no more. We are sure of it. So, will you join? Talk with me about it a bit more?”

Grantaire hesitated. He wished so desperately to say yes, just to spend more time with Enjolras and get to see his Inspiration up close and in person more. However, he was unsure about the  _ cause _ . He was confused as to what Enjolras was hinting at. The way he spoke- it sounded as if he wished to start a war (which was a completely idiotic thing to do, and one of such perfection cannot be an idiot). Grantaire was just about to reject him, explain to him how politics was really not his thing, but then he looked him in the eyes once more and all he could say was:

“Sure.”

A grin spread across Enjolras’ face. Grantaire’s heart fluttered in his chest at the sight and for a split second he forgot how to breathe. He made a mental note to sketch him smiling. The sight alone was enough to make a goddess stare. However, that revelation was soon suppressed and his pounding headache returned as his feelings fled him. Oh gosh. What had he gotten himself into?

Enjolras, regaining his composure, simply said, “Great. Meet me at the  _ Café Musain  _ tonight at eight, alright? It’s right down the street.”

He nodded. “Alright. Okay.” 

Enjolras, satisfied and eager to not waste any more precious time, gave him one last nod and started away, heading to class. Grantaire simply watched him go, feeling numb and disturbed. He had just walked right into something, and he was not quite sure what. It freaked him out really, and his pained mind could not quite comprehend what had happened. All he knew was that he had gained himself the opportunity to get to see Enjolras more, and god forbid,  _ speak to him _ . In his eyes, that was enough.  _ More  _ than enough. It was a miracle.

A miracle that he wasn’t entirely sure that he deserved.

Nevertheless, he had gotten himself into something that he didn’t believe he had the strength to ever get out of. He could sense  _ that  _ much in his alcohol-clouded head. So, desperate to get rid of the worry that accompanied him to class, he took another sip out of the flask. He knew deep down that it was a stupid thing to do, but he didn’t have the heart to deal with all matters at the moment.

Instead, he just gave into indulgence and accepted his addiction.

If there was a way out of confusion and corruption, he would be the first one to know. Unfortunately, there is not. What haunts you has a tendency to always haunt you, and where interest runs, addiction will soon follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact, i don't think the word "hangover" to describe alcohol grossness was actually used until like the 20th century or something. so rip.  
> (can yall tell ive never been drunk)
> 
> -dani (reallyquitegay)


	8. Apollo and The Café Musain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! This one took me EXTROADINARILY long to write for some reason, and I was gonna write more but then I just... didn't. Cuz I figured I'll save what I was going to add for a chapter that's a bit later.  
> But, um... yes!  
> Once again there is a lot of political infodump in here but uhhhhh it's sorta necessary and trust me it's just background info so that things will make sense later on :)

As Grantaire stood outside of the _Café Musain_ , he was hit with a sudden obscure wonder at the building looming before him.

He had been there, staring wistfully at it with his hands deep in his pockets, for what had felt like a lifetime in passing. All day long, he had been anticipating the current moment, and now that it had arrived, it all felt surreal. He was no longer lost in the hunger of hope, but rather in the present. Every sensation, every _second_ that his heart wasted in its longing granted him passage to a different reality in which all was possible. Now, in front of the café itself, he was stricken with the common anxiety regarding the crashing future. What if it was not all that he planned it to be? What if he had romanticized it beyond what the universe could allow? How would he deal with his grief then?

But, no matter. Over-contemplating the future was what had gotten him in such a mess in the first place, so it sure as hell was not going to get him out.

Still, there was a serene sort of pleasantness that came with admiring a building so. He himself was not a fan of architecture (like so many studies, it bore him), but there did seem to be something tranquil about the way it towered over the street. Normally, such height would be almost threatening. However, since Grantaire already had his prejudices to do with it, it seemed to him more like a kind giant than a monster.

That didn’t change the fact that he was reluctant to set foot inside, though. For all he knew, he could be walking into a war zone. Why that would be, he was unsure. He had never even entered the place (though he had passed it on scattered occasions). Nevertheless, he was anxious to meet Enjolras. That was that.

But, like ripping off a bandage, it was best to just take action and get it over with.

So, holding his head high, he swung the door open and stepped foot inside. 

To his sweet surprise, no one seemed to notice his presence at all. Looking around, he found the café awfully crowded- a valid explanation. Men, scorned by their pockets of their mental possessions, laughed loudly with a sense of complacent, unearned dignity. Many held cigars up to their lips, allowing the gray smoke to crown their heads in bright perfection. The building smelled strongly of alcohol- a sour smell that was all but unappetizing to the drunkard. He had to remind himself to stay sober, just for one night. Just once.

Then, suddenly: “Bonjour, monsieur,” a voice came from behind him.

He startled, unexpecting of attention. Turning in curiosity, he beheld a young woman with noticeably dark hair. She seemed run down and disheveled, as if her life was more work than it was worth. For a moment he believed that she may be a wandering prostitute from the look of dread in her eyes, but that thought quickly fled his mind as she took a step back from him and said, in a rough voice:

“My name is Matelote; I’m one of the two waitresses. If you need anything, just tug my arm or call out to my friend over there, ay?” She spoke with rehearsed sweetness, then pointed across the room, where another young woman (this one a blonde) chatted with a man with forced poise. “She goes by Gibelotte. She may be a bit preoccupied at the moment, but she’ll answer at your call.” Then, as quickly as she had appeared, Matelote smiled, pivoted on her heels, and made way to a corner where an older man had snapped at her. Service must suffice.

Grantaire made note of her memory, then turned back to the room. He spotted Enjolras rather quickly (it was hard not to, with his golden hair). He sat alone at a table, and was bent over a thick stack of lace-bound paper. He had not seemed to notice Grantaire’s presence, which was a bit frightening. He did not want to surprise him in an all-too sudden appearance.

So, pushing past men whose minds were clouded with smoke and took offense in the slightest gesture, he arrived beside him and cleared his throat to announce himself.

To his delight, Enjolras heard him quite clearly and did not seem startled in the slightest. Looking up from his bundle of papers, bound by a softly tied crimson lace, he scanned Grantaire’s face for a moment before ordering him to: “Take a seat.”

Grantaire, in no position to contradict, obliged. He pulled out the chair most nearest to Enjolras, and with a shaky breath at what was to come, sat down. “Now what was it that you wanted to talk about?” he asked, trying to speak over the noise that circled the room.

Enjolras, in that certain manner that he had, spoke in a sturdy voice. “A political riot,” he said, seriousness caressing his voice in a way that it was oddly amusing. “A revolution of sorts.”

Grantaire leaned back in the chair. It was made of wood bars, and hurt his spine, but that was that. “Wow,” he muttered. “That’s a lot, is it not?”

He shrugged passively. “Seems it, but I have plans, you see. This is what this is here, our plans.” He gestured vaguely to the netting of papers that he had set down on the table. “My friends and I have been… _interrupting_ our studies to set a plan for the future over the past couple of years. The hard thing is- we aren’t hardly enough in numbers to make that huge of a difference, or at least not now. We need people to accompany us, people with passion.” Then, looking him straight in the eyes, he said:

“And I believe that you have passion, Grantaire. I see potential.”

For a moment, Grantaire was unable to fully comprehend what Enjolras had said. The noise around the two of them had been drowned out by the dip in his rambling internal monologue as the world closed in. Words seemed to be insignificant terms made for measurements of the brain and of the brain only, and he was one to instead speak with his heart. And, from his heart, he felt a war arise in his chest. A soft stroke of beauty encaptivated his mind as he looked into the eyes of his newfound friend, marveling in the strong soul pooling just beneath them. However, in such beauty came a sense of dread. As no one creature is made of all darkness, no one creature is made of all light.

A being such as beauty is crafted through a fine layer of darkness lying just beneath an aphrodisiac form of light. Men tempted to carve through beauty often find the roots tainted with horror, and such a revelation has the tendency to have a lasting effect. Darkness and light cannot and will not separate, for they die without each other. Those who allow themselves to accept deceptive creatures such as beauty only end up lost at the end. 

That is how the story has always gone, and that’s how it will always go.

The beauty of love is not what is advertised on the cover.

Nevertheless, Grantaire convinced himself that there _was_ no such emotion to begin with, and instead focused on his words (for they were understandable, now).

 _I see potential_.

“Why exactly is that?” he asked.

Enjolras looked down at his papers again. “You seem to be determined in getting what you want, is all. I mean- after I expressed disapproval with you, you still went out of your way to finish and grant me your art. You have passion in school, and in art I assume.”

He nodded. “Sure, but I don’t understand how that can correlate into political passion.”

“Simple,” he said. “One capable of determination and belief is capable of self control. If you can put passion into art, then you can put your passion into the fight for freedom.”

Grantaire was not quite following. He was without belief for the most part. He lived life blind to all but he truly cared about- and social order… _freedom_ was not part of what he cared about. Sure, he had an _opinion_ on it, but in the same way that one has a favorite color. One might prefer blue to green, but there was no “passion” behind that opinion. It was merely a decision made for if, hypothetically, one was asked such a question.

“Enjolras… You must understand. Please. I do not care for politics in the slightest.”

Enjolras shot him a glare, then said, “I do understand. I get it. But, as far as I can tell, you are kidding yourself. Please just let me inform you on some issues, and then perhaps you will understand why this is so important. Alright?” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, once again appearing as if he was talking down to him like a child. He was beginning to wonder if he just viewed everyone as an inferior.

But, he had no choice. This was _Enjolras_. 

“Alright.”

He nodded once. Satisfactory. “Good. Now, I assume that you know about the political spectrum. Most people are left or right leaning in a sense- left being more open to positive change and commitment to a better future, while the further right you are…” His voice trailed off for a moment before he straightened his back and muttered, “The further right you are, the richer. You can afford to think in such a way.”

Grantaire studied him, trying to take interest in what he was saying but was instead too caught up in the way he spoke. The rhythms. The consonants. The smoothness of the vowels and the sharp edge of his tone. However, despite this distraction, he seemed to get a sense of what he was talking about, and though he was virtually apathetic to the concept, he nodded and said: “And I suppose you, ah, support… the left?”

Enjolras leaned back in his chair, seemingly proud that Grantaire had stated a rather obvious fact. “Times change, people change. Why can’t the government?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But, I _am_ sure that it’ll all figure itself out in due time, right?”

Enjolras shot him a look and shook his head. “No. No, it will not. There’s a hierarchy aligning this system in which no one has any say in what order they stand. The royals stand on the backs of the poor, and then proceed to make these empty promises to keep themselves on top. It’s disturbing. They need to be using their power for good. Reform.”

“So you want everyone to be completely equal? Is that the goal?”

“Not exactly. _Some_ sort of pecking order needs to remain in place, otherwise society will crumble. The idea that the economy is the sole aspect of government in dire need of fixing is just a lie. That’s socialism. It sounds alright on paper, but in reality, it has never and will never work.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Alright…” he said. “So, what _are_ you so strung up about?”

“Liberty. Freedom. I believe that people should not _have_ to be trapped in their sorry lives, and the only way that such a paradise can occur would be through a democratic Republic. Then, elites and power systems will exist to hold society in place, but the people will get to choose their rulers. Absolute rule would be condemned to memory once and for all.” Then, turning to him, lost in thought, he said, “It would be a heaven.”

“And it is achievable?”

“Sure. It’s one hundred percent achievable.”

Grantaire frowned. He was not keen on politics, but in Enjolras’ words came a sense of doom. “You describe such a government as heaven,” he stated, “but heaven is only accessible through death. That doesn’t make it achievable.”

Enjolras glared at him once more. It was a disempowering sort of look that crushed the soul bit by bit. He felt half tempted just to shut up and never speak again. “Look, I’m the one studying politics here, right?”

“Right.”

“So trust me. Don’t take my words for granted. Believe me.”

And Grantaire, in all his faith, agreed to listen. Not to believe quite yet, but to _listen_.

“Now,” Enjolras started up again, getting back into the rhythm of explanation, “France _has_ been a republic before. Quite recently, in fact. Do you recall it?”

“Do I… _recall_ it?”

He nodded. “Yes. I don’t know how old you are. You never told me.”

Grantaire grinned, amused at the silly harshness of his words. “I’m 23.”

Enjolras looked up for a split second, thinking. “Alright…” he said, stalling. “Alright. Then you probably don’t remember it, unless you’re one of those people who can remember every little detail of their lives.”

He shook his head, trying not to laugh. “No, I’ve got a, uh, _normal_ memory, if that’s the right word. But why do you ask? When was this republic?”

He appeared genuinely offended. “Have you not heard of it before? I thought this was review.”

“No, no, I’ve heard of it, I would just… like a reminder,” he said, defending himself. While his words were true, as he had _heard_ of the republic before, he had no sense of it outside of its word. He had never cared much for political history. He didn’t care about a lot of things.

Enjolras, however, saw right through this disguise and resumed his rant, trying to inform him the best that he could. “Well, the republic arose in 1792 during our Revolution. A new and brief constitution was drafted at a National Convention after violence arose against the monarchy at the time. From then on, and for a brief moment in history, a republic grew. That is, in simple terms: We had a cabinet, a Directory- everything essential to a great republic. However, we didn’t have a president. We needed a president. We needed so many things, but… You know… Life doesn’t always give you what you need.

“Anyhow, the republic only lasted a heartbeat. By 1804, the Empire had arisen. Napoleon had crowned himself. He was so unstable at first that it was almost hard to believe that _he_ was the man everyone so adored. But, he was Napoleon. He was the one with the crown, so he was the one with the power.

“That being said, he was finally defeated in the Battle of Waterloo- that I assume you have heard of, no? Of course. It was 1815. You had to be, what, 12? I was 9 years old when it happened, and I still remember my parents rejoicing. I could hardly understand why, for France had lost. I didn’t have any brothers to ask, so I just remained confused. But, now I understand. In the downfall of France, there was the downfall of Napoleon. That was the bright side. We no longer had to endure him and his terrors.

“Yet, the democratic republic had not arisen after that. Louis VIII became our king, and though he tried to be more moderate, he was still playing God with the citizens of Paris. He was still a king. But, the moderate days were over rather quickly, for Louis XVIII died. That was two years ago. Now, we’re stuck with his brother, Charles X. He silences Parliament, and identifies with the damn reactionaries. There’s no winning down this road.”

And then he smiled.

“No, _not yet_ , for that’s where we come in...”

Grantaire, during this historical spiel, had to try his best to repress a yawn. Something about history bore him, for it was not as if he would ever have to worry about the dead. What happened had happened, and if a man was already in his grave, what difference did he make? 

But, looking at Enjolras speak so enthusiastically, he began to wonder if there really _was_ something in history that could foresee the future. He wished to believe him so desperately, but instead of connecting with his words, he found himself connecting with his voice. Despite the rough edges around words such as _Napoleon_ and _king_ , which he spit out, Enjolras’ voice seemed to be layered in silk. He spoke softly, for he was not one who had to raise his voice to convince others to listen to him. And, as he spoke, he would occasionally turn to Grantaire, and for a fleeting moment in passing he would meet his eyes. Then, in that split second, the world would stop spinning and he no longer heard what he was saying. All he could do was admire the ocean of excitement trapped in his eyes, longing to spill out. 

He couldn't care less about his words, but if this was what he looked like while speaking, then by God may he never shut up!

Still, he wished that he would just talk about _something else_ for a change. Sure, he enjoyed looking at him and his crimson coat and golden hair, but boredom did not stop condemning his attention based on lowly sights. It wasn’t long before he had started yawning and fidgeting from weariness.

Unfortunately, though it seemed like he was lost in ecstatic thought, Enjolras was observant. He had a way of noticing people and their intentions- a sad talent that Grantaire would only really start deploring many months later. Even when it seemed as if he was lost in his own world, mind full with justice, he was observing every little thing about his surroundings. He was constantly reading body language and analyzing the thoughts of others. So, it wasn’t necessarily too disturbing, knowing his character, when he turned to Grantaire and exclaimed:

“You don’t even have the will to believe, _do you_?”

Grantaire jumped. “Huh?”

Enjolras groaned. “You say that you’re uneducated in politics and government, and I believe you. However, it seems to me that you not only don’t care, but you do not even have the _will_ to care. There’s a difference there, Grantaire. There’s a difference. You refuse to put in effort to listen-”

“-I _am_ listening,” he insisted.

“You’re hearing. You are listening to me, but you are not applying what I am saying- and that can be dangerous.”

He scoffed. Enjolras was so _serious_ . So somber, all the time. However, this disdainful approach seemed to cause him more offense. “And _how_ is that dangerous?!” he asked, trying not to laugh at him as his expression grew colder and colder.

“It in itself isn’t dangerous, but the implications of such ‘listening’ becoming a habit are. Soon enough, you’re unsure of how to form your own opinions- and that’s where things like the monarchy come into play.” He began to gather the bundle of papers before him. In a frustrated tone, he continued: “It’s the people like _you_ who are the issue. You have enough money and competence to attend a university but you do not use that money and competence for good. It’s selfish, it’s silly, and it has the most terrible of effects.”

Grantaire suddenly grew angry. Heat grew in his chest- but this time it ached intently. That haven of beauty had reduced itself to darkness, and in its ashes burned a fire of vexation. “Since when was this personal?!” he asserted.

Enjolras stood up and tucked the papers under his arm. “It’s been personal since you showed up, Grantaire,” he said. “You have a responsibility as a Parisian, and I thought that by coming to meet me you knew that. Maybe we can have this conversation at a later time when you actually realize your duties, but as of right now, you’re… You’re acting out of personal interest.”

“ _So_?!”

Pushing in his chair, Enjolras nodded to him and- restraining his frustration - nodded and said, “So goodbye.”

And he started to leave.

But oh, _oh no_. Oh no! Watching him go, Grantaire was suddenly choked with the grieving realization that he had not only offended Enjolras, but that he had pissed him off so hard that he found it easier to just leave him rather than to talk to him. 

He had hurt him: His Inspiration. He had hurt the man whom he had begun to revolve his life around almost religiously. That was a sin. 

He had committed a crime not to the law, but to his own heart.

Filled with self hatred and doubt and lost in the debt of his mistakes, he managed to realize that he had to get him back. He had worked _so_ damn hard to get him talking (or to even know his name!). He couldn’t just let him go that easily- it was that simple.

So, without thought, Grantaire stood up and ran after him, pushing past the drunken men and shoving the chattering blonde waitress - Gibelotte - aside. Luckily enough for him, some angel must have been watching over him and hoping for the best, for he was able to catch up with Enjolras.

“Hold on!” he called out, grabbing his arm. 

Enjolras jumped at the sudden contact and turned to look at him in surprise. He wasn’t used to physical contact- that was clear. Somehow though, it only made him want to hold on tighter. 

“What is it, Grantaire?” He sounded tired. Worn out.

“Um… I…” he said, searching for the right words.

“Spit it out before I lose my patience with you once and for all.”

“-I didn’t mean what I said,” he said, speaking without really thinking. He just started letting the words spill out and hoped to God that they came across as alright. “I really didn’t. And… And I want to learn more and be of help, but I was just being inconsiderate and mindless. I was being stupid. So would you mind… enlightening me a bit more? I will try to care. I’ll give myself the willpower to do so.” Then, taking a breath, he begged: “ _Please_.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes and looked around, judging his situation. After a solid minute or so of thinking, he pried his arm from Grantaire’s grip and said, “Fine. But you have got to promise me that you will actually listen and that this isn’t some sort of silly joke to you, alright?”

Grantaire winced. He didn’t really care about learning more about the republic, but he had already dug himself into such a lie. So, prepared to waste the night drunk in confusion, he nodded. “Alright. I promise.”

“You really do?”

“I really do.” A pledge.

And then, for a brief second in passing, Enjolras smiled. Such a grin was so extraordinarily rare that Grantaire had only seen it a couple of times before. It was hard not to marvel at such a sight, for his smile brightened his eyes and reddened his cheeks. His beauty was no longer just physical. His happiness radiated glory and a sense of distinct light. It was as if a god had possessed one of Earth’s divine creatures to create a unique being of perfection.

A god… That was it. In his smile, Enjolras gave healing. His grin was bright enough to light even the dimmest souls- such as a sun can light even the darkest of solar systems. Such brightness was art in itself; It was music amongst the colors. 

Enjolras, in his glory, ruled over all that predicts goodness. Enjolras, in all his perfection, had a new alias:

 _Apollo_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!! I think that this has been my longest chapter yet, haha. I hope the political part wasn't too draining.  
> But um.... ~establishing tensions oooo~ but don't worry that's all just foreshadowing hon :)  
> The next chapter will be relatively short so I should have it done in a few days or so.  
> Thanks!! :)
> 
> -dani (reallyquitegay)


	9. A Realization of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! Jesus Christ I really said "iLL HaVe tHe NeXT CHaPtER dONe iN a fEW DaYS". Sorry. Life happened (life being writer's block).
> 
> That being said, here is that relatively short chapter i promised.  
> TW: Sort of internalized homophobia?? Also religion things. Not too heavy. Idk.
> 
> Enjoy, loves <3

The true sign of enticement is not the fluttering of brightness in your chest when they are near, but rather the aching darkness that appears once they are not.

The bite of loneliness has the tendency to aggravate what should be a lovely feeling - the concept of attraction - into a devil of magnitude unknown to those who have never quite felt it before. Once you miss someone in a way that you have never missed anyone else before, a sense of nostalgia overwhelms you. The only thing is that this nostalgia is for a time you have never lived - a time you yearn ever so desperately for but yet, a time of which you have no memory of. You can remember the warmth of a field, but not where that field is nor what it looks like. You can remember the caress of lights, but not what those lights were illuminating. You can remember every sensation, every emotion, yet you cannot recall why.

With such terrible nostalgia, extra misery finds its way into your heart to find comfort among your thoughts. This despair clouds your head with emotion so strong that oftentimes you can hardly even tell that you are blind to logic in your depressive state. It is in these hours of self-intimacy do you really have time for careful consideration regarding your heart.

So, it was only natural that the morning after his first meeting with Enjolras, Grantaire wanted to do nothing other than to hide under his bed covers and to never come out. There, under the sheets, he could be hidden from the ache in his chest.

He only had the faintest awareness that he had to wake in order to go to class. All common sense was shut out of his mind. Though only a day prior he was ready to go and learn about whatever his crazed professor had to offer, he had suddenly entered what seemed to be a new chapter of his life. School was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. Why sit in a crowded lecture hall, listening to a man rant on and on about Velázquez’s brushwork when he could stay in bed all day, thinking about all he had discovered in one night?

He sighed. 

Oh, Enjolras. Apollo.

Enjolras had taken up the opportunity to explain to him the purpose of political pursuit for over an hour, and though Grantaire was barely paying attention, it was a glorious night in his mind. The sparkle of excitement that would coat his eyes as he spoke was enchanting. Just the memory of how the room seemed to brighten around the two of them was enough to make his heart pound. What a beauty, the dear perfection of enthusiasm! 

After a few moments, the pounding of his heart in his chest became too much to handle. He couldn’t just stay still, wrapped up in the covers. Though his mind was dark, the world was bright. Getting out of bed did not distinctly have to mean attending class.

So, with readiness, he pulled himself up and went to go open up his curtains. Instantly, sunlight came flooding into his apartment. Particles of dust became evident as the world seemed to light up. Looking around at his cramped little place that he dared to call home, he was stuck with a feeling of isolation, as if the entirety of France was enjoying the day while he was consciously locking himself inside. To ease this awkwardness, he pried open his window so that fresh air could come in and so that he could hear the sounds of the world beneath him.

Looking out over the street his apartment cornered, he was struck with the knowledge that all those dwelling along in Paris led their own lives apart from his. He was all wrapped up inside his own head, and hardly had the decency to wonder about others other than Enjolras. If that was how much the average stranger meant to him, his place in the world was evidently a bit questionable. And, if perception is equal to value, then…?

Then never mind it. That’s right.

The thought of only being relevant to himself made him uncomfortable, so he took one last breath of the brisk morning air, and stepped away from the window.

Unsure of really what else to do, he sat down at his desk and began flipping through his depictions of Enjolras. He had added on several more sketches to his collection the night before, which showed him talking passionately about whatever it was he so desperately wanted reformed. Looking down at the pictures, Grantaire smiled through the loneliness that began to wash over him once again. 

But such loneliness, where was it even coming from? Why did it only begin to appear so strongly once Enjolras had entered his life?

Attempting to distract himself once more from all that was already known, he leaned back and looked up at his ceiling, considering how interesting bland architecture really was. His ceiling was high - which was not much of a new style. It was… in fact…

Oh, who was he kidding?!

Hesitantly, he looked back down at the artwork in front of him. The sketches of a man he had only just begun to know stared back at him, eyeing him with sore judgement and disappointment. In the sunlight, kissed by nature rather than wax, the art appeared jarringly real. This was no longer a dream to relish in. 

It was about time that he faced reality.

Allowing all there ever was in his heart to overcome him, he slammed the sketchbook shut as quickly as he could and lifted himself from his chair. He, in anxiety, took it upon himself to pace his apartment and to consider the terms of his obsession.

Enjolras, a stranger with dignity conjured through passion, was the image of perfection he had always dreamed of. He was the beauty that he had always heard about, yet never truly was able to understand. He was the question and the answer, the call and the response. He was this spirit, coated in life and love, and at first Grantaire had wished to be like him. At first, he had wished to share his stride. However, a realization of sorts must be reached eventually - a realization concerning his feelings towards him. It was, with apprehension and terror, he realized that he wished not to be Enjolras, but to be _with_ him for a lifetime and more. 

He wanted with a burning passion to study his marble skin down to the core. He wished to entwine his fingers with his in order to mend his own imperfect self with Enjolras’ angelic soul. A conviction of such humanity, a conviction of longing romance is one so forbidden yet so desirable that he found it hard to deny any longer.

To bury oneself in platonic longing lacks the warmth of softness. Once the concept of love is introduced, it is unbearable to resist the want to spend eternity with the lucky subject of attraction. The mind cannot help but wander towards beaches, cottages, and cities in which hearts can formally connect. All but society longs for the embrace of romance, for suddenly every star in the sky and every gust of wind is a song, echoing the melody of desire. If the universe was to come crashing down, it was Enjolras whom he wanted to spend his last moments with. 

Humanity would be a cold and lonely species in retrospect, but perhaps it didn’t have to be. It was possible that the clasping of hands as the sky lit up could tell a story to galaxies. 

Maybe, history could have meaning.

At this thought, he shivered. Anxiety had been building in his gut, a stupid sick feeling that made him want to just erase himself from existence. There was no way, was there? 

To love another man was not unheard of. To love another man, and to be willing to admit it, however…

Such romance was a sin, of course. But, why should that matter to him? The fear of damnation startled him into submission to denial for a moment, before he awoke from said fear with a start and tried once again to make sense of it all.

His atheistic tendencies were indifferent towards the idea of sin. He did not have to worry about the repulsiveness of his involuntary emotions when it came to God. However, religion ran society. The idea that such preference (for him to love Enjolras in the same way as he loved the girls back home) was forbidden would have to stay. He could, in a way, accept the truth without accepting himself.

He could love Enjolras, the marble statue of devotion, from his imagination. To deprive himself of Enjolras would be far too much to bare. So, it was with sickening decisiveness he decided that he would not need to push away what he could not control any longer, under only one condition:

Enjolras would not know.

Of course not, for it is an average thing to think about but a terrible one to act on. In an attempt to stay worthy, he granted himself the ability to dream of him - his Apollo - as long as he knew how to wake up. As long as he could pull himself back to reality, perhaps it would be okay.

In other words, to love Enjolras was not inherently a bad thing. However, _showing_ him how he felt was. So, by condemning all romantic feelings to suppression, he could stay semi-deserving of respect.

By condemning all that made him human to the depths of his own guilt, he could swallow his pride and stay worthy of Enjolras.

Such a feat should be easy enough in theory.

Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yuh so hes bi
> 
> tbh that whole realization scene i wrote it based off of when i first realized i liked girls like 4 years ago. shout out to marsha, i totally fell in love w/ you lmao.  
> let me tell you, the panic that comes when realizing you're queer is fucked up. (lets just say i locked myself in the locker room and cried cuz she wore a bikini HAHA)
> 
> Also to be serious for a moment, if you have the time:  
> Not everything I write in this fic includes my personal opinions. I am writing from how I imagine Grantaire, a young man in early 1800s France, would feel regarding certain topics such as homophobia, religion, and just life in general. I do not believe that religion = homophobia, or that you should be required to suppress any feelings. yeet.
> 
> (also... since this note is already long... i retook my drivers test and failed again cuz ~anxiety~, but i passed it the third time last tuesday so im a licensed driver now yay!) 
> 
> thanks!
> 
> -dani (reallyquitegay)


End file.
